No Man's Brienne
by SoloWraith
Summary: In the beginning, she despised him for being dishonorable; in the beginning, he mocked her for being humorless. They have a lot to learn from each other before they make it to King's Landing. Canon setting for late Season 2/early Season 3. Some language and non-explicit stuff.
1. Chapter 1

Jaime slouched into the rickety boat carrying him downriver. Partly he slouched because it was more comfortable, but mostly because he wanted his lazy posture to be in direct counterpoint to Brienne's upright figure as she paddled along. Perhaps it was only his naturally mischievous nature combined with sheer boredom, but he longed to see her reserve crumble if it lay in his power to make it happen.

And, being who he was, he considered more or less everything within his power to make happen.

"Say something, Brienne of Tarth," he pressed, in a deliberately dramatic fashion. He liked calling her that. For some reason it made her sound like a creature out of a fairytale. A swamp creature, perhaps. As a nickname, 'Brienne the Beauty' was mildly amusing, but lacked imagination. He'd have to devise a new one for her.

"What do you want to hear?" she replied, tonelessly.

"Are you taking requests?" He straightened. "Can you sing, Brienne? I shouldn't think so...but maybe you've a sweet voice hiding somewhere in that considerable column of a neck, eh? How about a love ballad? Do you know any love ballads?"

"No."

"I bet you do. I bet you've memorized them all. I bet you sat by your window as a girl, listening to the men in the courtyard playing at night, wiping your tears on your sleeve." He warmed to his subject. "Perhaps 'The Maid on the Moor', no, I know, 'Lady Without a Love', that was the one that always got you, wasn't it?"

"You're right, it was," she said without emotion. "How well you understand me."

He wrinkled his nose in disappointment and stared off the side of the boat, smiling a little. "So you admit you are a thwarted virgin longing for a good—"

"How romantic." She met his eyes, when he glanced back at her, dryly.

"There, is this not preferable to silence?" he challenged.

"I am not disposed towards conversation at any time, less still with someone as contemptible as yourself. So no. It is not."

"You only say that because you haven't had a chance to get to know me yet."

"I would rather die any number of nasty deaths than get to know you, Kingslayer."

He shrugged, and let his knees spread apart in a suggestive manner.

Brienne continued to paddle, her face still stony and pale as ever. He couldn't even make her blush.

_Pathetic, Lannister._

_ You are just going to have to try harder._

* * *

"You know," he said, later, "this could be much more enjoyable if you'd just—"

"Shut up, Kingslayer."

"—untie me," Jaime finished. "What did you think I was going to say?"

Brienne gave him a not-very-gentle shove the moment she'd helped him out of the boat, and he stumbled, but she suspected he was doing it for effect. He regained his balance, shaking hair out of his eyes and looking at her with that expression of lazy arrogance he always seemed to wear, asleep or awake.

She had pushed hard in the boat that day, bringing them as far as she dared across the black water. But now the dark was encroaching, seeming to swell up from the surrounding bushes. Since she cared nothing for the kingslayer's comfort and little for her own, making camp was a short and simple process. Even though he snorted in disbelieving amusement, she used a length of rope to tie him around a tree before she began her preparations.

"Where am I going to run?" he asked rhetorically. "And even if I did, I'm sure you could catch me, with those long legs. Those legs you could wrap around twice around a man's—ah." She'd cuffed him.

Leaving him tied, Brienne moved about the chosen camping spot, just a few yards away from the riverbank, gathering up firewood. It wasn't going to be a cold night, but she didn't enjoy the darkness, and the fire would be her company.

She wondered, as she worked, if she shouldn't gag him. She couldn't imagine he had plans to shut his mouth any time in the near future. There seemed to be nothing Jaime Lannister loved so well as the sound of his own voice.

Once the fire was burning well, she straightened.

"Am I to be strapped to the tree all night?" he inquired politely.

"Not if you can behave decently." She set aside the stick she had been using to nurture the flames.

"Decently," he repeated, as if he didn't understand the meaning of the word. Which he probably didn't. "I would rather not be. If it's all the same to you."

"Just try not to do anything stupid." She stepped around behind him and undid the bonds. His hands were still bound. He made a point of stretching and then going over to stand by the fire. The light flickered against his form, highlighting the planes of his face to advantage. Brienne studied him for a moment. He was a handsome devil, there was no denying that (though she would have been torn apart by mythical krakens sooner than say so) but a devil he was, nonetheless.

She would be glad when she had done her duty and delivered him to King's Landing.

"You're staring," Jaime observed.

"Sit," she said. Most, if not all, of the things he said were best ignored. "It is time to eat."

"Good," he said, seating himself with surprising, cat-like grace. "I'm ravenous. What have you prepared for dinner, dear Brienne?"

Without comment she dug into her pack of supplies and unwrapped the bread still remaining. She broke off a moderate chunk and brought it to him.

"You'll have to feed me," he said, confidentially. "I'm afraid you've tied my hands too tightly."

"You will have to manage." Brienne returned to her place on the other side of the fire and began to eat her portion of bread, which she had scrupulously separated in order to be the same size as his. Let no one claim she had mistreated him while he was her prisoner. That was not her privilege.

Dark had closed in around them. The forest was silent except for the whisper of wind in the trees. Brienne settled with her back against a fallen log and her knees up, her sword at hand, preparing to wait out the night. She would need a few hours of sleep but she meant to take those later, and he would have to be properly restrained. The casual air he had been affecting over the past few days of travel did not fool her; someone as cunning as he was likely to do anything in order to make his escape.

"What are you thinking?" he asked.

Brienne reached forward and slid another log into the fire from the small pile she had gathered and stacked within arms' length. Sparks went spiraling out and up. She watched them disappear.

"You know," he said, "this is going to be a long journey. We should at the very least be on speaking terms."  
"I have nothing to say to you, Kingslayer."

"Really?" He leaned forward. "But you keep shooting me these disgusted looks. I'm sure there is _something_ you want to say to me. Flattering or no."

"I have been charged by my lady Stark with the task of delivering you to King's Landing. No more. I am required neither to entertain you, nor to provide conversation along the way."

Jaime tilted his head to one side in an almost indulgent fashion. "Do you ever smile?"

She was caught off-guard by this question but after a moment said, "When something amuses me."

"Because I can't picture it. You're so humorless. I do believe there is nothing you find amusing."

"There is nothing you could say which would amuse me, certainly." Brienne was conscious that she shouldn't be deigning any of his nonsense with replies, no matter how dour, but it was a long night and journey ahead of them, he was right about that. "I am going to tie you now. You will remain so until morning."

"I have to take a piss first," he said, unabashed.

Brienne maintained her stolid expression. She rose, took her sword and the length of rope and came over to him. He stood up, and did not resist when she turned him around, binding the rope securely about his upper arms, tying it, and then holding on to the end as she pushed him in the direction of the bushes. The rest, he would have to figure out for himself.

He fumbled with his bound hands in his pants. "Is this awkward for you?" he said over his shoulder.

It was, a little, only because she had not yet needed to do anything like this before. Her honorable nature prompted her to respect the privacy (where practical) of any individual, no matter how despicable, yet she could not afford for him to think there was anything he could do to embarrass her that would not have embarrassed a male guard in the same position. She knew he would cast such a thing up to her mercilessly and even if he didn't, he would see it as a weakness which could at some point be exploited to his advantage.

Brienne settled for keeping one hand on the rope and one on his back so that he was at arms' length, and turning her head away as long as the sound of urine hitting the leaves lasted.

"There," he said, eventually. "I'm done." The curve of his mouth as he looked back over his shoulder was mocking even in the dim firelight.

"I won't help you if you need to do that again later," she said, as coolly as she could manage. "So do not ask."

"If you want _my_ help with anything in the night—"

"Shut up, Kingslayer."

Another day of river travel passed before Jaime noticed a weak spot along his side of the boat where the wood was damp with rot. Brienne didn't appear to have seen it yet and Jaime was careful from then on to keep his leg resting near so that the area was in shadow. He had to wait until the river widened before he could attempt his plan. Brienne tended to keep the boat hugging the shore closest to the roadside, where they had cover of trees and shrubbery. But on one morning they came through a rocky stretch and Jaime saw that she was, of necessity, guiding the boat further out towards the middle.

If his plan didn't work he would look a fool—although this by itself wasn't enough of a consideration to stop him—and if it worked too well they could both be dead before there was any room for negotiation.

He decided either was better than doing nothing.

Brienne rested the paddle for a moment and shifted to peer over her shoulder at the sun, which was blindingly bright today.

He brought his boot heel down, hard, on the rotten section. The wood fractured under the pressure and water began gurgling through at a pleasingly rapid rate.

She stared at the damage and then lifted her eyes to his face.

He smiled.

She began quickly to paddle.

"You won't make it," he said. "One of us has to bail. Untie me."

"No." Brienne worked harder. Even preoccupied with the plan, he spent a moment being impressed by the strength of her stroke.

"With that armor, you won't get one length in before you sink." He held his foot aloft. Brienne stretched out her own leg and kicked him, aiming for his groin but he brought his knees together in time and then punched through the bottom again anyway. Water began to gush in.

Brienne's face blanched further. "You will go down too."

Jaime shrugged.

"You're mad."

"Mad, I suppose I could be," he said, cheerfully. "Though Lannisters don't run to madness. Untie me." He leaned forward, compelling her with his gaze. "Once we get ashore, I'll find another sword and you can fight for your chance to take me prisoner again. A fair go, eh?"

"I care nothing for survival," she said, but her lips were bloodless.

"Bulls' balls, everyone cares for survival. You have brains, don't you? Use them!"

She set down the paddle and snatched a dagger from her boot, and for a second he thought she meant to stab him with it, which would have complicated the plan, but she brought it up to his wrists and sawed quickly through the ropes.

"That's better," he said, pulling off his boot and using it to bail, while she took up the paddle again. "I knew one of us was going to be sensible eventually."

She didn't reply. By the time the boat was scraping on the rocks, they were ankle-deep in river water despite Jaime's efforts at bailing. But the idea had worked quite well and he was pleased with himself.

He replaced his boot, leaped out first and hauled the length of the foundered craft closer in, then extended a hand to Brienne to help her out. For an instant she just sat, her cornstalk-colored eyelashes shading her eyes.

_You can't win them all, wench, _he thought with satisfaction. _ And this fight coming up...you're not going to win that one, either._

After a few more moments, Brienne grasped his forearm, and he pulled her forwards, out of the boat. He had to brace himself. The woman was a wall of muscle and the armor didn't make her any more yielding. In a split-second, with his other arm he divested her of her sword.

Jaime might have almost felt sorry for her in that moment if he hadn't been in such a self-satisfied mood. She resembled nothing so much as a wilted flower. Well, maybe a weed more than a flower. But at least she wasn't crying, gods preserve him from a wench who cried, he detested soggy eyes and it did nothing to soften his heart, so was wasted effort as far as he was concerned.

"Let's go. We're for the road now." Done with this damned boat-traveling for good, whether as prisoner or guard Jaime had no desire to take it up again.

"Is that wise," Brienne said dully. "You may be recognized."

"I'll worry about that," he said. "Move."

She did; slowly at first, but when he used the flat of her borrowed blade to whack at the back of her leg, somewhat more precipitately.

They headed up the bank and through a cluster of trees, towards the road visible in the distance. It was warm, with the sun overhead. The road was deserted.

They walked for some time in silence, Brienne trudging, Jaime sauntering.

"I would like my sword back," Brienne said, slanting a look at him.

"Patience," he said. "I'll give it to you when I have one of my own."

"Do you imagine I believe that?"

"Believe it or not, just as you like."

She was silenced by this.

Jaime added, "I never tell a lie when the truth will serve. The trouble is, it so rarely does."

"You like nothing so much as to hear yourself talk."

"I confess it is one of three things I do well."

She maintained her obstinate silence.

Jaime saw, in the distance, an approaching rider. If the fellow had any sense he'd give them a wide berth, but people had so little sense these days. The man slowed. Suspiciously, but he did slow. Enough for Jaime to step in sharply, causing the horse to bolt up in surprise. He caught its bridle and gave the rider a quick assessment. Well-dressed and carrying the weapon he was looking for.

"Get down," he said, leveling Brienne's sword.

The man complied, his face reddening with anger.

"I'm afraid I need your sword," Jaime told him.

"Fuck off," was the reply. A poorly-considered one, Jaime thought; he slashed the man's throat to teach him a lesson, then shoved the point of Brienne's sword deep into the other's soft belly. The man gurgled.

"I thought you'd come round." Jaime pulled the weapon free, using his boot to kick the body to the ground. He then took the requested sword and examined it. Able enough steel. He helped himself to the man's scabbard and belt, as well.

Brienne watched in wordless disapproval. Meanwhile the horse danced and skittered nearby.

Jaime looked at it. "You'll have to walk," he said. "It seems a hardy animal but I doubt it could carry the both of us."

"Even could it, I would not ride with you."

As if to decline either of these options, the horse neighed and promptly ran off, its hooves creating a cloud of dust along the dry road.

"Ill-tempered, like its owner," Jaime remarked. "Come. You shall have your trial. Unless you need some time to recover from your near-drowning."

"No," Brienne said, evidently choosing to ignore the undercurrent of mockery he'd inserted into that last. "I am ready now."

Because it amused him to do so, he made a courtly gesture, indicating that they should move away from the road.

She preceded him. They walked just to where the land rose in a slight hill, shielding them from view of the road, and down the other side. Here there were some bushes scattered over the sandy ground, but it was flat enough to serve for a quick melee.

She turned and faced him, a half-dozen paces off, her mouth set.

He tossed her sword to the ground, hoping to elicit anger by this action and, from the flash in her eyes, he'd been at least a little successful. She stooped, picked up the weapon, and turned sideways, circling towards him.

They engaged.

He was expecting her to be good, because she wouldn't have become what she was, otherwise. He was ready for that. He wasn't prepared for her to be quite that good. Really, she was as good as most men.

Brienne's sword missed his left shoulder by mere centimeters.

_Better _than most men.

As they continued, he realized he might have to revise his ideas of how long this would take. She wasn't going to give any quarter; she was completely committed and that meant he had to be, too.

"Let me know when you've had enough," he said, when there was a moment their blades weren't locked.

She came at him again.

He was mainly defending. Mostly because at this point he thought it would keep her angry. And there was nothing wrong with starting a fight angry, but if you stayed angry, you tired faster. She was armored, he wasn't. Also she had been paddling most of the damn day. She should have been tired already.

_This wench really is a beast_, he thought, but not without admiration.

Steel clashed on steel again, and then Jaime moved in. Time to finish this.


	2. Chapter 2

Brienne was tiring. It was inevitable, engaged in such intense, close-quarters, lengthy combat with a single opponent as skilled as Jaime. This was not an open arena where she could swing and use the full length and strength of her limbs to advantage, and Jaime was pushing in closer now, forcing her to work in tighter circles, keeping her from using full extension.

Her mind was working just as hard, trying to leap two or three steps ahead of her feet, trying to outguess him.

She shifted a bit too slowly, temporarily off balance. Not even long enough for the average opponent to notice, let alone take advantage, but this was the Kingslayer.

He slipped through her window of defense and, shoving hip to hip, wound his leg around hers and tripped her.

At the start of the battle, she might still have been able to recover equilibrium. Now she fell like a tree, unable even to roll, the impact knocking the wind out of her chest.

Jaime was atop her in a second, knees on either side of her stomach. "Yield." One of his hands held one of hers, the other was almost casually but yet potentially deadly at her throat, just under her chin where the mail ended.

That was his mistake, because her other arm, though partially pinned to the ground against her side, was still uncommitted.

She used her fingers to work the small dagger strapped to her outer thigh loose. Getting it free, she might have buried it in his chest had he not jerked back in time, caught her wrist and forced it back on itself. Brienne felt the bones slide together in an abnormal manner as the dagger came back towards her. She shoved it away using all the remaining strength in her forearm, but the force of her own action caused the blade to sheer down across her cheekbone. The dagger went flying.

For a moment it surprised them both into stillness. Jaime's weight, centered on her pelvis, shifted back as he straightened. Brienne was aware of blood dripping down along her jawbone. She stared at the blue sky beyond his head. Such a perfect sky.

"I am fairly sure," Jaime said, sternly, though he was still breathing heavily, "that Lady Stark did _not_ give you instructions to stab me in the heart."

Brienne lay motionless. She had no intention of debasing herself by struggling now, though he wasn't pinning her arms any more. She thought how satisfying it would be to punch him. Hard, right in that pretty mouth. But she lacked the energy, and her cheek was going numb at the same time it was stinging with pain.

"Get up," Jaime said, rising. "You're not just going to lie there and bleed, are you? How like a woman."

He collected both swords, sheathing one, and her dagger, tucking it into his boot.

Brienne used her stomach muscles to sit upright, though it hurt, and fumbled at the ties of her neckpiece, which was suddenly uncomfortable. Her head was ringing, but she thought, _I will not give him the satisfaction of knowing how poorly I feel_. She put up her hand cautiously to her face and it came away crimson.

Jaime stood looking at her, then circled and came close. He crouched down and reached for her jaw. Brienne turned the wounded side away.

"Let me see," he said with professional authority.

"It is nothing."

"_I _will be the one to decide what it is or isn't. Wench." His fingers tightened on her chin. She let him turn her head.

"Mm. It's not deep. Your looks won't be improved, but it could hardly worsen them." He gave her head a quick pat, which was so unexpected that her eyes flew up to his face.

"I am not one of your squire hopefuls," Brienne said through her teeth. "Do not touch me so."

"Well, we don't have time for anything else." Jaime rose. "I'll be on my way, since the day was mine. But see, I'm in a generous mood. Rather than face the embarrassment of plodding back to Riverrun empty-handed, you may accompany me to King's Landing."

Brienne spat.

"That is not considered a civil reply in most parts of the land," Jaime said urbanely. "I shall have to teach you some manners along the way—Oh, and I wasn't actually offering you a choice. Participation is mandatory, since I can't have you wandering about the countryside. Come."

For the second time that day Brienne took his outstretched arm and let him pull her up. If the slimmest chance still existed that she could recover the balance of power by going with him, she had to, since it was certainly true that her mission would be a complete failure if she returned to Riverrun alone.

It wasn't enough to give her any hope, but Brienne knew it was the last option remaining to her.

* * *

By the time darkness hit that night they'd traveled a considerable distance. The sunset had been muted by clouds and the air coming in from the horizon hills smelled like rain; there might be foul weather the next morning.

Jaime chose a spot down by the river. Brienne sank to the ground when he indicated they were stopping, not seeming to care that it was pebbled with stones. He surveyed her for a moment and decided she was too tired to run tonight. She looked ghastly.

He made a fire upon the beach rocks anyway, because it might be the last one they would have if rain was coming. Brienne slumped near it, staring into the flames.

"Aren't you going to tie me," she asked after a brief silence.

"Would you like that?"

"Don't insinuate things, please."

He grinned that she could still manage to sound vaguely haughty. "Later, I suppose I'd better, so you don't strangle me in my sleep."

"I have no intention of strangling you. You were right. Lady Stark would have been very unhappy if I had killed you."

"Well, I'm glad we're in agreement it's better that I'm alive." Jaime crossed over to where the water was lapping upon the stones, knelt and wet a patch of his cloak. He came back to Brienne and crouched in front of her.

"Hold still."

She recoiled when he touched the material to her face.

"I said hold _still_. Seven gods. Don't be such a discredit to your sex."

Cleaning some of the dried blood off, he examined the wound. It would definitely leave an ineradicable scar, possibly not a tidy one. He hadn't intended to mark her permanently, but it couldn't be helped. The girl had tried to stab him in the chest, after all. And it was as well she realized now that she couldn't cross him and expect to be treated any differently than he'd treat a man who'd done so.

If she wanted to fight with the men, she had to take her punishment with them too.

He rinsed out the bit of his cloak at the water's edge.

Brienne leaned back against a river rock and closed her eyes. Her breathing slowed and evened out. Jaime wrapped himself in his cloak, tucked an arm under his head and prepared to get some sleep himself.

The rain started sometime in the early hours of the dawn. It was not until then that he recalled, drowsily, that he had not bothered or remembered to tie her hands as he'd said he was going to. For a moment he felt the instinct of alarm, and his eyes flickered open, but she had not moved at all.

He sat upright. The sky was still dark, but they were only going to get soaked, staying here. Rain was pocking the surface of the river, which seemed to be creeping closer to them.

Jaime took a moment to stretch muscles stiff from yesterday's exertion and then woke Brienne with a cursory shake to her shoulder. She struggled upright.

They started east again on the road. The rain was driving into their faces, rendering it difficult to see into the distance. Despite this, despite the lack of breakfast or of dinner the night before, Jaime felt rather invigorated. His cynical streak was blent with a natural optimism too buoying to be dampened by a little rain.

By mid-morning they paused under the cover of an immense tree. It bore leaves the size of his hand, providing an effective shelter against the wet. Brienne sank back against the trunk, drawing her knees up.

Jaime crouched, took a drink of water and passed the rest to her. "If we reach a settlement by night, we'll need a room, and in the morning, horses."

Brienne stared at him blankly.

"Must you play the idiot? Lady Catelyn would have supplied you with funds. Or were you planning to whore your way south? I _doubt_ you'd have gotten us very far if that were the case."

She remained motionless.

"Unless you're waiting for me to dig it out from wherever you have it stashed away, I suggest you hand it over."

Brienne's mouth tightened. After a moment she reached into an inner pocket and produced a tiny cloth sack.

Jaime dumped the coins out into his palm consideringly. "Hm—not very generous, was she—shame on you, Lady Stark, wherever you are. Still, it's enough." He pocketed them. "And don't make that face, you'll benefit from this too, unless you're planning on sleeping outside by the inn dung-heap just to make a point." He rose. "Let's go."

* * *

Under ordinary circumstances Brienne would have refused to even entertain the notion of sharing the same room as the Kingslayer, but then things had been anything _but_ ordinary. Her injury, the night and day of journeying in sopping clothing, the lack of food had all worn down her resistance considerably. When by late evening they saw a cluster of low buildings with an innkeeper's sign clanking in the distance, the desire to be warm, dry, and to be nourished by hot food was choking out other considerations.

Such as her hate for Jaime Lannister.

Who not only had her sword, but the gold she thought had been so carefully concealed, as well.

_There may have been honor in him once, but there is none now, _she thought, watching him saunter ahead. How he could saunter after yesterday's battle and today's privations she had no idea. But she wished he would trip over something. And fall on a sword, ideally.

While she lurked outside, Jaime conferred with the innkeeper, then motioned for her to join him. She inched through the doorway, unwilling to attract attention. The inn was small and only a few of the tables in the common room were occupied. Two men were leaving just as she slunk along the wall. One of them glanced at her, looked on and then glanced again. He elbowed his companion, and as they passed, he shouldered into her.

At any other time Brienne might have pushed back and sent him staggering, but at that moment she did not have the spirit. She allowed the force of his shove to knock her into the wall.

Jaime had been at least a half a dozen paces from this interplay but suddenly he was right there, tapping the man's arm, turning him around, with the polite smile that Brienne had come to recognize meant trouble. "Is there something wrong with you?"

The man sized him up, trying, and failing, to guess at the relationship between him and Brienne.

"I thought you might have had too much to drink," Jaime continued, genially, "since you just walked into my lady here."

"Pardon," the man said with false courtesy. "I didn't realize it—she—was a woman. After all she doesn't look—"

"Like she could teach you a lesson if she were armed? But she could. As she's not, it falls to me." The blade of his sword was angled alongside the man's neck. No one had even seen it come out of its scabbard.

_So much for not attracting attention_, Brienne thought, trying to shrink into the wall.

"Outside," the innkeeper barked.

The man's companion had already vanished. Jaime and the fellow on the end of his sword followed through the door, which banged shut after them.

She wanted to call him back, though it was too late.

The assorted people at the tables resumed drinking and eating, a few still casting curious glances in her direction. Jaime was back within moments, the sword re-sheathed. He tossed a coin at the innkeeper, who caught it only somewhat mollified. Jaime put a hand under Brienne's elbow and propelled her towards the private rooms.

"You didn't kill him," she said, once the door had closed behind them. "Tell me you didn't."

He went over to the table, took a drink from the pitcher of water placed there, then unfastened his cloak. "You want me to lie?"

"No, I want you not to have killed him," she breathed.

"A fine time to pull out your sensibilities, I must say." He cocked an eyebrow at her.

"Kingslayer, if I put to death every man who slighted me there would not be a great many men left in Westeros. Yourself among them." Brienne faced him, trying hard to understand, but unable.

Jaime shrugged. "I'm hungry. I'm going back down to eat. I'll send a girl up with something. I think it's best if we don't—" he widened his eyes at her. "Set tongues to wagging."

"I think it is safe to say you have already accomplished _that_," Brienne said bitterly.

It was a relief when he departed. She sank down, wet clothes and all, into one of the heavy wooden chairs by the table.

The room, when she summoned up the energy to look around, was large and nicely appointed for a wayside inn. Besides the table and chairs, there was a fireplace with the fire already started, a bench by a shuttered window, and a large bed, which she couldn't quite bring herself to look at.

There were a few taps at the door and a serving woman poked her head in. She was bearing a sizable bucket of water on one hip and a plate balanced against her forearm. She left the supper on the table and deposited the bucket by the fire when Brienne gestured for her to do so. Once the door shut behind her, Brienne dragged one of the chairs over and wedged it under the handle; it would at least slow anyone down trying to come through.

She began to strip off her armor and various pieces of clothing. Hastily sponging the parts of her she could leave decently unclothed, she took a wool blanket from the bed and wrapped herself head to toe in that. The rest of her things she set out near the fire to dry.

After eating, Brienne pulled the second chair over to the fire, re-adjusted her blanket about herself and stretched out, warming her feet. She was rather dreading Jaime's return because she was certain he was going to engage in some sort of banter either about her state of undress or about the bed. Possibly both. But as the heat returned to her limbs and the food settled comfortably in her stomach, she began to relax.

The fire was dying and she had fallen into some kind of sleep when the door banged open.

"Where are you, Brienne."

Gods be good, was he drunk? She couldn't tell, he sometimes talked in that lazy dramatic way when perfectly sober. Brienne tensed. She could fight with her bare hands if she had to.

Jaime came over to her. She had to strain her eyes to see him in the dim light given off by the embers. "There is a bed," he announced, enunciating. "Are you going to sleep in the chair?"

"Yes."

"Very well, please yourself. More space for me," he said, over his shoulder.

She breathed out, not sure if she should take this opportunity to attempt to re-arm herself or simply be relieved he was leaving her alone. She could hear the rustle of fabric and then he was climbing into bed.

There was silence for a few moments and then he said, sounding drowsy, "If you've a mind to take your leave in the night, the weapons and gold are right here beside me. You're welcome to try and get them back, though I warn you I'm as naked as the day I was born. So if you fancy a midnight wrestle..." he yawned and didn't finish the sentence.

Brienne pulled the edges of the blanket tighter around her shoulders and shifted in the chair.


	3. Chapter 3

_A/N: Something happens in this chapter that is non-canon/OOC regarding Jaime's faithfulness to Cersei, although I think that was given more emphasis in the books than the show; I can't recall if the show even referenced it. Still, it's what I wrote, and I'll defend/explain the choice if anyone wants. Thanks._

* * *

Jaime awoke because the fire was almost out and the room was growing chill. He pushed aside the furs and padded over to the hearth, crouched and fed it a few smaller sticks. He ran a hand over his face, trying to recall the last fragments of the intense dream that had been occupying his consciousness. At supper he had not taken much wine at all, in fact, but his mouth was dry now as if he had.

The cool air felt good against his skin. Rising, he stretched, watching as the flames re-ignited around the new wood.

He glanced over at Brienne's form, now that there was light to see her by. Her head was slumped against the arm of the chair and her own arm. She had wrapped herself cocoon-like in the cloth but it had slipped away, and a little of her collarbone and white shoulder was exposed. He stared at it, drawn despite himself to this tiny bit of her that was usually encased in armor.

It occurred to him to wonder, for the first time, if she didn't want all those things other women seemed to want. Surely she still had a woman's heart. Easily played with, easily broken. It could be all she wanted was to wield a broom and rock an infant until her man came home, but she'd just never been given the chance.

A waste if she did want that, considering her skill. Over the years Jaime had encountered any number of feckless lord's sons who barely knew how to hold a sword properly, much less possess the strength to swing it. He'd rather have Brienne on his side than half a dozen of them. She would never be on his side, though. She was too good for that, wasn't she? Far too full of honor and morals and the importance of vows and promises.

It would quite likely be the end of her. People like that didn't get very far in this world.

He had always had strong sensory impulses at the oddest moments, and now a whim compelled him to rest his hand on the space of her bare shoulder. Her skin felt cool, the flesh underneath surprisingly pliant.

He stood for a moment like that and then let his hand fall and returned to the bed.

* * *

A week had passed, yet Brienne was no closer to gaining the balance of power over the Kingslayer.

He had surprised her by keeping his promise and returning her sword to her the morning after their first inn stay, once they had obtained horses. Then with an enigmatic glance he had turned his horse south for King's Landing. Perhaps she should have wheeled around and ridden in the opposite direction. But she hadn't. She had followed.

Then on that first day they had encountered a difficulty: a small group of men who recognized both Jaime and the potentially large ransom they could demand if they captured him. Brienne had assisted in discouraging them, and after the brief conflict Jaime had given her a look that suggested he might possibly consider the idea that she was his equal. And that shouldn't have mattered at all to her, but somehow it did.

She was finding it hard to remain detached and focused. She kept telling herself she was still serving Lady Stark in all of this, that what mattered now was ensuring he got to the city, thus effecting the release of Sansa Stark. That it didn't matter if they were traveling now more like companions than anything. That killing the brigands by his side had been an act of self-preservation, not one of solidarity with him.

She dared not admit to herself even for a moment that she was drawn to something in him that was not dead, that was not worthless. Something that was asking for a chance—no matter how much his arrogant blather clamored over it all—to be seen differently. Because she knew he would still scoff and reject her if she let her guard down with him for a single instant, if she implied that she thought there was anything more to him than what she had first seen.

Brienne felt pulled in separate directions, one by her sense of duty, the other by her instincts. They had never been misaligned before and it unnerved her.

Jaime was at best indifferent to (and at worst spectacularly callous towards) other humans they encountered, and yet he never mistreated their animals. Brienne sometimes wondered if this was only because the horses represented a value and purpose, one he didn't seem to ascribe to most people. She reserved her judgment on the matter, doubting he would listen to anything she had to say about it.

One night along the road, it was raining hard again and they took shelter in a farmer's tumbledown barn, far enough from the main cottage that it seemed a reasonable risk in return for the protection. The roof was low and Brienne had to stoop to enter. There were no animals within; it must have been abandoned for a newer structure, though the scent of pigs still lingered.

She wrinkled her nose, the action tugging uncomfortably at the healing flesh along her cheekbones.

Jaime noticed. "We can't sleep in an inn _every_ night," he said, although they had only done so the once. "But if my lady prefers, I could perhaps knock on the good farmer's door, begging for a bed for her sake."

"Don't be an ass," Brienne said tranquilly. "This is sufficient."

He made a melodramatic gesture of relief, dropping their supplies on the floor. "I suppose one of us should water the horses."

"I will do that."

"Suit yourself." Jaime was already investigating the building, turning over a broken gate, kicking piles of matted hay.

Brienne took the horses by their leads and walked them through the back field, looking for a source of water. There were muddy rain puddles everywhere, but they needed potable water for themselves as well. Eventually the horses balked at a drainage ditch and she let them drink, but it was some time before she came across a stream that was running clear.

The rain was slackening. Brienne paused by the stream, washed her face, drank and rested for a brief period. She had seen plum trees along the edge of one of the fields and she meant to stop and fill a sack with some of the fruit on her way back. She pushed herself up, gathered the horses again and moved on.

Upon returning to their stopping place she tied up the animals in a sheltered copse where they could graze and go unnoticed, then brought Jaime's share of the fruit towards the barn. It would not be much of a supper, but was better than nothing at all. They had shared roasted rabbit towards noon before the weather had grown foul, but had not eaten since then.

Distracted and tired, Brienne did not immediately understand the sounds meeting her ears after stepping inside until her eyes adjusted to the dimness.

She stood for a moment, trying to quell confusion and anger. Where had the girl even come from? The farmer's daughter perhaps, or even his wife, for all she knew. Or cared. Her sleek back highlighted by the open-air window, long curls tumbling as she rose and fell over Jaime.

They both paused for a moment, as if listening. She couldn't tell whether they had seen her or not. The girl twisted her neck to look over her shoulder.

"Here is your supper," Brienne said. She dropped the sack of fruit. A few plums rolled out across the earthen floor. She stepped on one as she turned; it burst under her foot.

"I told you we had to hurry," Jaime said, with no evident shame. He was scrambling up, slipping his pants back on, she could see in her peripheral vision. He came—no, swaggered—over to Brienne, tossing his head back. "Go," he added, to the girl.

Brienne was frozen, wanting to stride outside, yet the girl was already darting past her, half-clothed, and she felt fatigue and rage holding her in place. She flexed her fingers, curling them into fists and out.

"Don't be angry," Jaime said, in a manner that managed somehow to be both warning and cajoling. "Or are you jealous? The only reason I can imagine you would be jealous is if you somehow believe yourself to have feelings for me...and that seems like a very remote possibility indeed."

Brienne's tenuous grip on her self-control broke. She turned the force of her entire body on him, slamming him into the wall (which shuddered from the impact), her forearm against his neck, their chests touching, eyes inches apart.

Their bodies had not met like that since the swordfight when he'd pinned her to the ground, and it was rewarding to be the one on the offensive, to feel his breath catch with surprise when his head connected with the wall. Further it gave her immense satisfaction because this was no game any meek little girl could play.

Jaime inhaled, his eyes fixed on hers. With a slight rasp against the pressure she was putting on his throat he said—"Have a care, maid of Tarth. I don't like being handled."

"I did not hear you objecting to being handled by that—"

"You _are_ jealous."

"Jealous, no. Disgusted at your lack of control." She let her forearm slide a little.

"If we're going to enumerate all the ways in which you find me lacking..."

"If you possessed even _one_ or two of the qualities that make a knight—"

He turned his head to the side, his mouth becoming cynical. "I'm getting bored now."

"That doesn't surprise me since you have the attention span of a dull-witted toddler!"

"Why do you care who I fuck?" he retorted.

"I _don't_." Brienne backed off, unable to maintain the intensity of her responses, now that her initial swell of fury had ebbed. She let her hands drop to her sides. "I only wish you would have the goodness not to do it around me."

"Well, I'm not going to turn into the High Septon just to preserve those delicate sensibilities." He pushed away from the wall, rubbing the back of his head. After a few moments he stooped, picked up one of the fallen plums, gave it a cursory rub against his thigh, and took a bite.

Brienne could not understand how his moods and manner could change so abruptly. She was still trembling with tension. She made to move past him, towards the entryway.

He stepped in her path, deceptively quick. "Where are you going?"

She stared past his bare shoulder. "I can't sleep here."

He sighed between his teeth and around the mouthful of fruit, then swallowed. "It's still raining."

"I had rather be in the rain than near you," she hissed, putting her hand on her sword and employing all her remaining self-restraint not to draw it.

"Fine." Jaime held up both hands and uttered an unflattering oath about her forebears. He rummaged around in the hay and found his shirt and cloak. Throwing them on, he grabbed his sword belt, gave her a dark look and walked out into the wet.

The door creaked shut after him.

A moment later, while she was still standing, it snapped back open.

"I'm taking these," he said, and snatched the sack of plums off the floor. Then yanked the door closed again.

Brienne scraped a pile of withered hay together, away from the patch of moonlight, and sank down into it, pulling her cloak about her as defense against its scratchy fibers. In the silence of the small deserted barn she could hear a spot where the rain was dripping through from above; _tap, tap, tap_. It was to this thin but steady music she at last fell asleep.

It was still grey out when she woke with the pressing need to eliminate water. A fly was buzzing about somewhere as if trapped among the straw. She sat up, and wrinkled her nose again because after the rain dripping in all night, the building now smelled like _damp_ pig shit.

She lurched to her feet, ducking her head, and made her way to the door.

Jaime was directly outside. She nearly stepped on him. He was sitting up with his back to the outer wall, covered in his sodden cloak, one knee propped up against which his arm and head were resting. She could just see the curve of his jaw, relaxed in sleep.

When she went to move past him, though, his sword was suddenly out from underneath the cloak, and he stared up at her for a few seconds without recognition. Then he ran his other hand across his face as though to wake himself up.

Brienne found some bushes to disappear behind, and came back out.

She did not expect to hear any words of apology for or reference to the preceding night, and there were none. They packed up their few supplies in silence and brought the horses out of the grove, leading them for a while until it was light enough to see into the distance.

At the edge of the road, Brienne fumbled with the saddle straps, checking their readiness out of habit. She glanced up and saw Jaime looking at her across the back of his own horse. Her mount shifted sideways as she pulled the strap a little too tight. She patted the animal's neck, taking strength from its solid warmth under her hand.

"Are you not talking to me?" Jaime said, after a moment, with almost child-like sincerity.

"I'm not certain I can think of anything to say that won't bore you." Brienne swung up, settling herself into the seat and adjusting her cloak.

"As long as it's not another lecture on how I should behave in a more saintly manner."

"I do not recall ever having told you _how_ you should behave. If you wish to know my opinion on something, you can assume it will be the exact opposite of your own." She nudged the horse forwards.

"I doubt that...how do you feel about hot mulled wine!" he called after her, swinging up on his own mount. "An open road! Sharp steel!"

Brienne ignored him. There was silence for a moment and then he yelled, "..._babies!_"

She checked the horse and waited for him to catch up with her. Back straight as a board, she demanded, "What?"

"Babies," Jaime said, with a touch of defiance as if he had said something dangerous.

"What is that supposed to mean?"

"Women all seem to love them." He was eyeing her.

"You can safely remove me from that group."

"Bri_enne_. You don't hate babies. Say it's not so."

"I do not hate anything," she said, "except liars and dishonorable men."

"So you want to have babies then. Someday."

"I do not." She could feel her face reddening. How was it that it did not faze her when he purposely tried to be offensive, yet the amiable way he was discussing possible progeny was for some reason mortifying. "If you have learned nothing about me thus far, you should at least have noticed I am not comparable to others of my sex."

"The differences might only be superficial."

"Superficial," she said, raising an eyebrow. "I defer to the expert."

He wrinkled his nose as if he felt that was a cheap shot. Perhaps it was. But then he was master of those as well. Brienne thought it hardly fair that he be the only one to employ such verbal tactics. She prodded the horse forwards again.


	4. Chapter 4

The universe wanted him to look bad, Jaime decided. It was as simple as that.

They had earlier that day crossed the border into the Crownlands, and by now all he wanted was food and drink, a hot bath, and a proper bed—he had had enough of pig barns and ditches at the side of the road. So they had stopped at the Ivy Inn. Their stay should have gone unremarked; there shouldn't have been anyone to recognize him.

But there was.

He forced an easy, if insincere, smile as the pair of lesser lords he knew came over to their table.

Brienne, across from him, glanced at him and then kept her head down. Probably that was a good idea, though it wasn't going to spare him from having to introduce her.

He took a long drink of his wine and didn't put the goblet down until the last possible moment, then greeted the men—whatever their names were, he could barely remember.

They were staring at Brienne with open curiosity and little regard for manners. Like he'd known they would.

"Lady Brienne of Tarth," Jaime said, running the words together and kicking Brienne under the table to prompt her to look up, even if only for a second. "Lords Crowell and Marlin." He took a bite of his roasted quail and did not invite the men to sit down.

Crowell expressed his surprise, in careful language that stopped just short of being offensive, at Brienne's unconventional appearance.

"She's a good swordswoman," Jaime replied blandly. He was noticing that Brienne's lashes were the same light color as her hair. Even though her face wore its habitual lack of expression he could tell she was in a sensitive mood. He wasn't sure how he knew, but he did. _Now piss off,_ he told the men mentally.

Crowell said something stupid about women. Which, in and of itself, Jaime didn't necessarily disagree with, but it did strike him as a stupid thing to say, at this particular moment, when there was a woman sitting right across from him.

He sighed and stared hopefully into the bottom of the goblet, wondering why someone hadn't yet refilled it.

Crowell was _still talking_. Unbelievable.

"Excuse me," Brienne said, using what he'd come to think of as her dead voice. She rose, and she was at least two heads taller than the short Marlin, who took an uncertain step backward, which made Jaime want to snicker, (but that could have been the wine—it was very strong, this wine.)

He'd probably imagined it, but as she swept by he thought he saw tears in her eyes.

_I just want to go to bed,_ he thought plaintively, and took a final bite of his dinner. Then stood up.

"Have a nice night," he told the men, with another hollow smile, "or, you know, go find a sheep to fuck. Whichever."

He knew they were staring after him but he didn't care.

Brienne had gone outside. He looked around for a while, squinting into the sunset, trying to figure out where.

Ah, down by the river, just past where the water wheel was turning, by a magnificent willow tree. She actually looked small under the shade of its massive branches.

He sauntered down, getting ready to deliver a patented barrage of forcible good-humor punctuated by cleverness, because that was what he liked to do, but as he approached he could see she was, in fact, crying.

Sort of soundlessly. Which was laudable. Because he did hate blubberers. It made him want to strangle them with their own hair.

Hers wasn't long enough for that, he reflected.

"Come on," he said. "You've heard worse than that. I've _said_ worse than that."

"Go away," she said, her voice like a bit of stretched twine. "Please."

"They're pigshit. You're not actually upset. This is something else. You just found out that...your brother is dead. Or that you're unexpectedly pregnant! Who's the father, Brienne? Or it's that you've contracted a fatal disease—"

"_You_," she said, turning on him with the face he'd expected to see her show the lords inside (why was she giving it to him, that wasn't fair) "are the disease. _Shut up_, Jaime Lannister."

"Just trying to help." He put up his hands.

Her eyes, in their glimmering ice-blue sorrow-rage, were beautiful. That was very strange. He hadn't had _that_ much wine. But for a moment, he allowed himself to be captivated.

He shook it off. "I'm going up to have a hot bath. By all means, stay here and bawl if that seems like it might be more enjoyable."

The whole interaction had been rather irritating—with the exception of her using his actual name—but the bath did improve his mood. Though he indulged in a lengthy soak, it was long after he'd gotten out before Brienne returned to the room.

He had put his pants on, but was still bare-chested, and was busy running hands through his hair to dry it, noticing when he brought his arms over his shoulders that something twinged in his neck. He lowered his arms and grimaced. No doubt the fault of those stones they'd slept on last night.

Brienne's face was once again composed, though paler than usual, causing the new scar to appear rather alarmingly red. Not looking at him, she began to remove some of her armor. She'd started to do this around him now, though he'd never gotten another chance to see any more skin.

"Want a bath?" he suggested, adding, "I can even have them bring fresh water."

"Not with you here."

"I could close my eyes."

She gave him a skeptical look but he thought there was a little relief in it too, that they were back to their badinage, that he was not mentioning the tears.

"Even if your eyes were gouged out," she stated, "I would not."

"Now that seems excessively prudish. Not to mention gory. I only suggested it because you do smell like a horse."

Brienne crossed in front of him to set her sword belt across the table. "Better the scent of an animal than the taint of dishonor."

"Oh, we're talking about me again...You're like a lute with a broken string."

"If you see yourself in my words, there must be some truth to them."

"Come here and rub my neck," he said, perching on the edge of the bed. "I can't reach where it hurts."

She looked over her shoulder at him. "You forget yourself, ser; I am not one of your paid whores."

"Yes, well, they are all the way downstairs and I didn't think you wanted me to bring one up..."

"Rub your own neck."

"I just said I couldn't reach it! Hence the reason I'm asking—Why would I pay for something when you can do it for five minutes for free?"

"And yet married men still go to whores."

"I'm not asking for your hand in marriage _or_ for a fuck, so can you stop being difficult and get over here?"

She gazed at him levelly, unmoving.

"Unless you're afraid to touch me."

"I am no more afraid to touch you than I am to stick a dagger into your stomach and pull your entrails out."

"That's my Brienne."

"I am not your Brienne. I am no man's Brienne. And I will not rub your neck."

"Let me show you how it's done," he said, engagingly—"_and_, here's the dagger—" he pulled it from his boot and extended the handle towards her, "If I offend you, use it against me."

She came and sat down on the bed beside him, gingerly as though he were infectious, but she took the knife, her fingers closing around the bone handle.

Jaime reached over and put a light hand on the back of her neck, feeling the muscles tense even under the quilted tunic. He could see her watching him out of her peripheral vision.

He applied pressure with his thumb and fingers and she made a tiny sound, but didn't move, so he estimated his entrails were safe for the time being. He continued along the band of muscle towards her shoulders, and a little towards her collarbone, but was careful not to stray too close to the front of her throat, assuming that would make her nervous. After a few moments Brienne's head drooped, tacitly permitting the manipulation.

"See," he admonished. "Not everything has to be about sex."

She raised her head, looking disbelievingly at him.

He shrugged. "Now me," he said, letting his hands fall and turning his back on her. If she wanted to drive the dagger into his ribs it would be the ideal opportunity, but he was betting she wouldn't.

"Put your shirt on," she said, after a brief silence.

"I will when you're done."

Brienne was silent and unmoving for a few more moments, then she rested a tentative hand on his back. Her fingers were icy; Jaime recoiled out of surprise, and she promptly snatched them away.

"It's all right," he said. "Here," and he returned her hand to his shoulders, stretching a little.

"If you laugh at me," Brienne said, her voice unsteady, "I _will_ stab you."

"There's no wrong way to do it," he soothed. _Pretty similar to fucking in that respect..._but he wasn't supposed to be thinking about that.

For a fleeting moment her fingertips, surprisingly delicate, traced across the surface of his muscles and then the pressure vanished.

"I can't," she said.

He twisted around to look at her.

She met his eyes, unafraid, but with the earlier denial still in them.

"You know, Brienne," he said, and he meant it honestly, but it came out quite pedantically, "sometimes there are things we have to do that are uncomfortable for us."

"When?" she said in almost a shout. "Tell me about a time when you had to do something that was _uncomfortable_ for you, Kingslayer!"

Jaime stuck his tongue in the corner of his cheek, and was silent for a moment before he told her, "I have this reputation as being some sort of a Lannister golden boy, but it's not really...deserved, is it? I mean there are things, _uncomfortable things_," he emphasized it the way she had, "in my life, that nobody gets to hear about."

She grimaced in bitter disbelief and muttered—"Such as?"

"Such as the fact," he said, leaning in close so that their faces were mere inches apart, and to her credit she didn't pull away, "that I fuck my twin sister. That's pretty _fucking uncomfortable_."

It shocked her; she flinched, perhaps more from the way he said it—with such emotion directed specifically at her for not believing that his life could involve unpleasantness—than the actual words.

"I don't understand," she said. Her voice had shrunk almost to a whisper.

"The mechanics?"

"No, I mean I don't know why you would choose to..." She glanced at him uncertainly.

With a mordant smile he said, "It's complicated."

"And I—don't know why you would share it with me, either."

"Well, _Brienne_, my point was that we all have fetters of one kind or another, don't we. We have people criticizing us for what we are or what we aren't. You're the last person I should have to explain this to."

He paused, regrouping. "So you might want to think about that instead of wallowing in your virtue."

"I'm not wallowing in my virtue, whatever that means."

"When you would rather face half-a-dozen men on the field than give yourself up to a few moments of touching—and don't argue, you know I'm right—then something's amiss."

"I let you do it," Brienne said, as if she were admitting to something disgusting.

"And I bet you feel like you have to say an extra hour of prayers tonight, don't you?"

A corner of her mouth curved upwards in the tiniest, secretive fashion. This was so unexpected that he reacted with his own grin. "You _are_ human. I was beginning to think it was entirely possible you'd been fathered by one of the Others."

She turned her face away, but there was a sudden softening in all of her lines; jaw, the length of her arm, the set of her shoulders. The momentary vulnerability prompted him to action. "I'm going downstairs. Want me to have them send up hot water?"

She nodded.

Jaime slipped his shirt on first, then went out, closing the door after him.


	5. Chapter 5

Sometimes it didn't matter how good you were. Sometimes there were just too many.

This was one of those times.

Brienne fought anyway.

She didn't see Jaime giving up, even though it was clear that this time, they were not going to prevail. She had just a few moments to track him in the chaos, to take in and admire his fighting grace and speed as he pivoted, preparing for more combatants...

And then four of them rushed her at once.

It was one of those times.

It was over.

She lay with the point of the sword at her throat, with the calm of acceptance.

"Jaime Lannister," someone crowed, over the background noises of the panting remaining men regrouping, and a few of them groaning and dying, "What've you got?"

"Some overgrown wench playing at soldiering," was the reply of the owner of the sword held to her neck. The sun was fiercely brilliant behind him, blinding her from this angle.

"Bring him over here," he added. He leaned down, grabbed Brienne and hauled her to her knees; he was taller than she was, a rare occurence, and obviously strong enough to swing her around. Pushing her against a nearby tree, he lined the sword up to her neck again.

It was good to have the sun out of her eyes. She could now see how many of them were left. Seven, possibly eight, not counting the wounded.

Two men hauled Jaime over. They weren't taking any chances with him; his hands were already bound.

"Who's this, Kingslayer?"

"Nobody," Jaime answered, shaking hair out of his eyes. "Kill her, if you want."

The man looked back at Brienne and she composed her expression in time, staring back at him without any evident turmoil.

"He's bluffing," someone said.

"Of course he's bluffing, that's what Lannisters do. I think we'll keep you alive for now," her captor said to Brienne. "Your friend here is just cold enough to mean it."

"He's not my friend," Brienne said. Her eyes met Jaime's. He gave her a quarter-smile. Ridiculously, it made her want to smile too, prompting a memory of the last night in the inn.

"That's a pretty scar." The man lifted the point of his blade to touch her cheek and trace the length of it. He had an oddly pleasant way of speaking, in contrast to the actual words. "I could give you another to match it." He looked back at Jaime.

"Decorate her all you like," Jaime said. "As I said it's nothing to me."

"We'll see if we can't get you to change your mind." Briskly, the fellow flicked at her face. She had a second to be grateful that he exercised the right amount of control, before the sting overwhelmed. It took intense restraint on her own part not to grab instinctively at her face. She kept her arms by her sides. And bled.

Her captor looked back at Jaime for any reaction.

"It's not as if she had any looks to spoil," he said, with bland unconcern.

Brienne held still, gazing straight in front of her.

Tiring of the game, or perhaps conscious of a lack of time, her captor nodded to the others for her hands to be bound. And then they were moving through the ravine, she and Jaime on separate leads behind different horses, having to keep up as best as they could. The horses were held to a steady trot. It was not a pace that, running behind, they would be able to maintain for long.

When the leader finally stopped she had no clear idea of how long they had been moving. She bent over, hands behind her, and gasped in air. The men were getting water at a stream but no one bothered to offer them any. Jaime sidled close and glanced pointedly upwards at the sun. She realized after a moment he was telling her to orient herself. They were no longer heading south, that much was clear; north or perhaps northeast.

There was no opportunity to exchange words without it being obvious. Not that she had anything particular to say to him, anyway.

Again they were moving. At a slower pace now, though it seemed because of the more boggy terrain. They walked well into the evening, until the sun slipped past the edge of the trees.

It was rapidly growing dark while a fire was constructed and horses were tended to. Jaime and Brienne were allowed to sit for a brief space, but it seemed far too short a rest before they were being hauled up again, brought to a tree, and bound to it, standing, one on either side.

Brienne tensed every muscle as she was being tied, knowing it would result in a slightly more comfortable slack once she relaxed into the bindings. She could feel Jaime's hand—not intentionally, she presumed—being pressed into the back of her thigh.

Satisfied that neither of them would be able to move, the fellow went back to his companions, and they went about settling down, getting their meals started over the fire.

Her face was throbbing. Every time her heart beat it seemed to echo in the freshly wounded skin. She began to concentrate on breathing. _In for eight seconds, hold for eight seconds, out for eight seconds_, from the base of her stomach, like her weapons-master had taught her.

An improbably yellow moon was beginning to rise in the distance. She counted and breathed, while it shifted and changed.

The food smelled good. But she was thirsty more than hungry. She couldn't stop thinking about water. Her mind was conjuring images of the cerulean seas, the vibrant waterfalls, from back home on the island of Tarth.

Jaime's hand was moving against her leg. She endured it for a minute and then muttered, "Could you stop that?"

"I'm trying to determine a range of motion," he answered, "not seduce you. Though I suppose it's flattering you think I have the energy. Can you touch my hand?"

Brienne twisted her wrist a few centimetres. A cramp shot up her arm and she brought it back. She tried the other one. Her fingers briefly encountered his palm.

"Isn't this nice?" he said. "Holding hands in the dark. There's even a moon."

She said nothing.

"You're angry because of what I said about your face."

"No." Brienne leaned her head against the rough bark of the tree. "You said it before. It was discourteous but not untrue."

"Which is one of the reasons I abstain from any attempts at perfect knighthood, it's damn near impossible to be courteous and truthful at the same time. Someone's coming."

Her back was to the fire in the distance, while Jaime faced it, so she had to wait with some tension, listening to the sound of the approaching person, but unable to see.

"Which of you wants water?" The pleasant voice of the one who seemed to be in charge.

Jaime said nothing, so neither did Brienne.

"It's not a trick."

"The hell it's not, goat-fucker," Jaime said, with equal pleasantness.

Brienne heard the sound of fist connecting with flesh and felt the tree quiver in response. She grimaced in sympathetic reflex.

The man stepped around to her and held up a waterbag. She wanted to spit at him, but she didn't have the requisite fluid, and she was so, so thirsty. She drank a swallow of its brackish contents but pulled her face away before he had stopped offering it to her.

He gave her an enigmatic look and walked back to the camp, the padding of his footsteps soon fading.

The silence made her feel guilty. And it was probably just a coincidence but Jaime's hand wasn't touching hers any more. It seemed silly to apologize when she had done nothing wrong. Still, having taken the water now felt like a tiny betrayal.

"Jaime...?" she said uncertainly.

"I got what I wanted," he said.

* * *

Brienne felt her neck snap her head back to wakefulness. Jaime was, impossibly, crouched in front of her—impossibly because he had been tied on the other side of the tree, the last she could recall. She squinted at him through a haze of exhaustion. He looked irritated, possibly because she was taking so long to come to full senses. As the rope came away from around her arms she became aware of every muscle in her body singing with cramped pain from the exertions of the day before. But now they must move; they were escaping, somehow, though her foggy mind couldn't tell how it had been accomplished.

He shoved her ahead of him through the undergrowth. Had the sky been overcast they would have been lost, both literally and figuratively; but she could see enough by the mid-night moon to make her way. After an undetermined time of stumbling quietly along, there came into view a saddled and readied horse. Just one, it seemed; but there was no time for questions or arguments, only Jaime's firm grip on her elbow as she clambered atop it; and though the animal initially veered away in startled protest at Jaime swinging up behind her, they were soon cantering along. Brienne could not think about much other than staying upright and not getting knocked off her seat by any low-slung branches that whipped by. Jaime grunted in her ear once when she ducked and he didn't. It was a strange, madly uncomfortable flight, made all the more so because she had no experience of riding two at a time.

They rode until the light seemed to be changing and the horse was beginning to wheeze alarmingly. Then when they did stop, Brienne nearly fell off. Jaime's dismount was no more graceful.

The animal sweated and panted nearby, while Brienne rolled to her knees; it was almost a blissful agony to bring her legs together. She knelt, leaning forwards. Jaime was working his jaw, which was bruised.

"Poor horse," she said, when she had enough breath to speak. "How did we get away?"

"Bribery can work wonders. I would save your pity for one or both of us. I think my face is broken, and yours like something tried to eat it."

Tranquilly Brienne brought her hand up to the fresh cut on her cheek. "It's not as deep as the one you gave me. It will heal faster."

"Ever the optimist." He sat up. "Let us enumerate the facts. We've no coin, weapons or food. Nor, I think, that horse for much longer."

"Perhaps you should have made a better deal."

He gave her a rather sour look. "I can only do so much. If I had left our negotiations to you we would still be sitting there."

"I am not complaining," Brienne said. "I am grateful to be free. Should we part now?"

"So suddenly, why? Have I offended you?"

"In a multitude of ways."

He seemed to regroup, his expression losing its hint of derision. "You already know I'm not the white knight."

"You seem determined to reiterate it." Brienne forced herself to climb to her feet, though her body wanted nothing more than to remain curled on the ground, dew-damp leaves and all. Morning light was shafting through the trees. Her stomach turned over with emptiness, her throat scratched with thirst. Yet it did feel good to not be a prisoner. Stretching her arms and rotating her shoulders, she looked at Jaime. She wanted to leave him. She also wanted—needed, had sworn—to bring him to King's Landing.

She didn't know what he wanted. She didn't think _he_ knew what he wanted, either. Perhaps he was torn between conflicting desires as she was.

"Were you paying attention yesterday?" he demanded. "You don't even know where we are."

"Neither do you."

He raised an eyebrow at her.

"If we separate we will be harder to find," she said. "Either way, we shouldn't linger here."

"Who's lingering?" Jaime got up without even a grunt though she was certain he was just as sore as she. Probably he was trying to be manful. "Let's go."

Undecided, Brienne watched as he approached the still-winded horse, gathering the leads and sparing it a cursory pat along the neck. He swung up into the saddle, then brought the animal around to her, extending a hand.

_Don't be a fool_, her inner voice warned.

But she wasn't sure which was the more foolish choice.

She took his hand, scrambling up and settling behind him.

"Hang on," he prompted, as the horse lurched.

She had to put her arms quickly around him, an initially distasteful action which promptly became a simple issue of not falling off, just as it had earlier. Now that they could see their surroundings, Jaime could direct the horse where he wanted to go, and he did so with an apparent confidence she suspected was quite false.

Twice they stopped before midday to rest and water their mount. They did not converse. There was barely a chance for Brienne's legs to stop shaking from the unaccustomed difficulty of double riding. Her face ached continuously. She would have given much for a proper rest but they could not afford to lose any headway they might have made on their captors, who were presumably in pursuit. She was glad Jaime seemed uninclined towards his customary lighthearted chatter, though she assumed it would start up again if she were incautious enough to remark upon it.

Thus far the travel had been through dense forest with no kind of path or laneway, but by midday they came upon a set of wagon tracks. Jaime pulled up the sweating horse and slid off in front of Brienne, gesturing for her to come down as well. It seemed evident that either the horse could collapse under them, or they could be done with it first. Jaime stripped the saddle blankets off and slapped the equine on the rump, sending it skittering back into the undergrowth.

They looked both ways along the length of ruts in the ground.

"I hear a river," he said, after a few moments.

_Not another river. _But she followed him, stumbling a little, through the bushes towards the source of the sound.


	6. Chapter 6

Though he had his doubts about the cleanliness of the water, Jaime was thirsty enough not to care. He lowered himself flat to the ground and drank until full.

Brienne knelt nearby and also drank, though she used her hand to scoop her portion up.

"I don't fancy marching all the way to the city like a common foot soldier," Jaime remarked.

"You had all the coin I had," she answered mildly. "I have no other way of furnishing transport. I didn't see them take it from you."

"They didn't. I threw it into the bushes before we were set upon. Some pox-ridden farmer will stumble over it, no doubt."

"It will come back to us," she said, with the ghost of a smile.

"No, I would say it is well and truly gone," he said, scratching his bristly jaw thoughtfully, but carefully, so as to avoid the bruise. "I'm quite sure I couldn't find it again. Trees tend to look the same from one to the next."

"That's not what I meant."

"Then what?"

"Just that...when you release something in such a manner, freely—rather than having it torn from you—oftentimes it has a way of reappearing." She cast him a sideways glance, her shoulder elevated slightly protectively against his scorn.

"How very mystical," he said, deciding to be gentle, since she was prepared for worse. "I'd be delighted to welcome the handful of gold, whenever it decides to reappear. But I think we should probably accept our destiny of walking for the time being."

"Do you believe in destiny?" Brienne asked, still with the defensive shoulder, as though she expected him to throw something in her direction. By the old gods and the new, this was a prickly wench. In her adult lifetime to be rejected by the average man, well, perhaps that was to be expected, men were fairly superficial creatures after all. Even _he_ could readily admit that. But hadn't her father ever shown her, as a child, a moment or two of affection? Hadn't she grown up with any kind of love?

He would ask her some time. Not today.

"Destiny," he said. "That's a word for wenches. Fate, now, that I could argue for." That was enough philosophy for the moment. He sluiced water over his head. Something stung and, feeling with his fingertips, he discovered he had a lump at the back surrounded by matted hair. That goat-fucker had given him a good hit. Though to be fair it was the tree that his head had connected with.

He raised his face out of the water and noticed her expression change.

He listened, too, not hearing anything, but she rose to her feet. He watched as she looked around, then grabbed a stout tree branch.

"Someone needs help," she muttered, scanning the opposite bank of the river.

"_We_ need help." He pushed himself up on his elbows, shaking damp hair out of his eyes. It was hard to tell what exactly was going on. He could see two figures that were either wrestling, or...Right out in daylight. Either way, it was so far from being their problem, whatever it was, that he couldn't imagine why Brienne would want to get involved. She didn't even have an actual weapon.

"Stay here if you're afraid," Brienne retorted. Brandishing her makeshift staff, she plunged through the shallow water.

He groaned in disgust, gazing up hopefully at the heavens in case they were about to open up and send him that sword—did she have to _look_ for trouble? This was why women could never be on equal footing with men, with their soft hearts and even softer heads.

Still, he followed her.

Brienne's staff was already swinging by the time he climbed up the opposite bank; she wasn't bothering to ask questions. The man yelped in pain several times as he fell away from the girl, and then silence, after the tree branch made a connection with his skull. He slumped to the side. Brienne kicked him.

Jaime rubbed his forehead and winced in reflexive sympathy, seeing her target.

The girl was some low-born wench, not that old, dressed in grubby rags and with a face as white as cheese, scrabbling backwards and staring terrified at Brienne.

"There," Jaime said. "You've probably killed her haystack love. How do you know she wasn't enjoying herself?"

Brienne turned on him, nostrils flared and jaw clenched. "She was screaming."

"And now we're sodden." Jaime sat down, pulled off both boots and emptied them in turn. "Well done. Because I'm not sure what could be more enjoyable than marching in wet clothing for the rest of the day."

"Do you have _no_ sense of—" Brienne cut herself off, bridged the distance between them in three or four steps, and said into his ear, "I want you to tell that girl, right now, that you would have stood by and done nothing."

Jaime turned his palms up. "I would have stood by and done nothing," he said, agreeably.

The girl looked from one of them to the other, wordless, still clutching at her torn rags.

"You see, if he comes to, he'll be a lot more angry than before."

The man seemed unconscious for the time being, while a bruise flowered on the side of his head.

"I don't know him," the girl said in a hoarse voice. "I was just over that hill looking for a goat when he...he came upon me. I ran but..."

"Happy day," Jaime said. "Your virtue has been preserved. Run along back to your goats. We should be on our way, should we not, my lady?" He gave Brienne a challenging stare to match her incredulous one. "Unless this child happens to have, back at her cottage, a fine pair of horses and a set of swords she'd like to give us by way of thanks for our trouble?"

"I didn't see you taking any trouble," Brienne muttered.

He held up his wet boots for her perusal, before putting them back on.

"I've no animals," the girl said with big serious eyes. "But t'other...I might know where to find it. Not far, I'll show you."

Jaime and Brienne exchanged glances.

"Destiny," he said. "Better bring that tree branch."

* * *

The bodies smelled very bad.

There were two of them tossed together in a sheltered ditch and it was hard to tell where one began and the other left off.

Brienne, unexpectedly, gagged. The girl had been wise enough to point, and stay a more respectful distance away. Upwind.

Jaime could see it was up to him to retrieve whatever weapons might lie with them. Not surprising no one else had bothered, even if they had stumbled across the corpses.

He held his breath and stepped in closer, using his foot to push the fellow's rotting leg over. It rolled into an unnatural angle. Ah, there was the sword. The belt was compromised by rot. Gingerly, he withdrew the blade.

Brienne made a funny sound in the back of her throat.

He turned and eyed her. "Don't be such a girl."

In the act of speaking, he forgot not to breathe and the stench assaulted him again. He coughed and thought about throwing up his bellyful of river water.

The other sword, he discovered, was underneath the other body, which necessitated some cautious, and even more odoriferous, dissection. But eventually he had both weapons and could step out of the ditch.

Brienne and the wench both had similar expressions on their faces.

"Obliged," he told the girl urbanely, gesturing to Brienne that they should be going.

It was not practical to carry a sword for any length of time, much less ones that were still covered in the slime of their previous owners. Once they were well away from the ditch and the girl, Jaime said: "Let me see your shirt for a minute."

Brienne looked at him with an expression of dawning misgiving. "You are not going to wipe those on my clothes."

"Just on the edge...yours is longer."

He caught the fraying hem of her tunic and ripped off a length. Despite the stench still in his nostrils he was feeling cheerful. It was all going rather well. Horses must be obtained, of course, and before that, food and shelter...but something with which to defend themselves, that was always the best place to start. He wiped both weapons clean, then threw the rag aside. A pity they'd been stripped of their original swordbelts at the time of capture. Ah well, he would carry the sword in his hand. He examined them both for a moment, balancing them each, tilting them out and looking along their length, then gave the one he judged superior to Brienne. She needed the advantage.

They walked along, now on a ridge where they were afforded views of the valley below, in silence. Jaime gauged from the position of the falling sun a rough direction of south, and Brienne seemed to be accepting his course.

By early evening a settlement of sorts came into view, one that seemed large enough to support a tavern or two.

"I propose one of us investigates," he said. "Me. You don't quite blend in."

"I never have," Brienne said. Her voice was odd.

"That wasn't a criticism. Not this time. I'm just making an observation."

"You are far more likely to be recognized. And I remember what happened the last time I left you alone at night."

"What—are you still upset about that?"

"I was not upset then and I am not upset now."

"Nonsense. You were livid. You nearly put me through the wall." The memory was rather entertaining, looking back on it. "And then," he said, warming to his subject, because he could see a faint coloring along her cheekbones, "you kicked me out of the house like a jealous fishwife—" He neatly sidestepped her swipe.

"First of all," she said, "It was a pig barn, not a house, and secondly, _you_ chose to sleep in the rain. Insult my looks all you please, but do not ever compare me to a—"

"Bri_enne. _My darling maid of Tarth. I haven't made fun of your looks in ages."

"Yesterday."

"That was because of the others," he sighed. "Are you ever going to forgive me for all my misdeeds?"

"You shouldn't look to me for forgiveness," Brienne said. "Those you have wronged must forgive you."

"They're dead," he said, not certain if he was being funny, or grim. "Which of us is going?"

She was silent for a few moments. "I still think it should be me, but I tend not to have good experiences with large groups of drunken men."

"Ah," Jaime said. "Though that is where all the gold is, and the drunker they are, the more likely they are to lose track of it. Men are fools, Brienne."

"A moment of self-awareness," she mused. "I was wondering when I would see one."

He gave the back of her leg an amicable slap with the flat of his blade. "I'll go. Don't wait up." He started away, but turned, despite the jesting admonition, to look back at her, because it had occurred to him she might well take the opportunity to strike off on her own.

"You will be here, won't you?"

If she wanted to mock him for saying that, it was the perfect chance. In fact he half-expected it.

"Not here in the open." Brienne pointed in the distance. "I'll shelter by the trees."

He evinced what he hoped was the appropriate amount of unconcern and sauntered off, setting his mind to relieving some fools of their money, either by way of a game, a challenge, or an ambush at sword's point. He was ready for any of the three.

* * *

Despite Jaime's caution not to stay up, Brienne meant to stay awake until he returned, however late it might be—not out of stubbornness, but because she felt the need to be on guard. Even sheltered and hidden under the canopy of trees, she didn't want to drift off. And she'd thought her hunger might help to keep her awake, too; they'd not eaten since noon the previous day. But lack of sleep proved too strong to fight against. A scattered hour or two while bound to a tree the night before was not enough to go on.

She dreamt of Tarth. She was dreaming about standing under a crystal waterfall, bathing in its cool flow. Completely and blissfully alone. She was herself, though her hair was long; she could feel it in silky ropes lying against her back. She smiled through the water running over her face.

Jaime was shaking her shoulder.

The moon was very high. She struggled to keep her eyelids open, so much she wanted to stay in the dream. Here was dark and damp and hungry and uncomfortable.

But it wasn't dark. He had made a fire. She looked about nervously, but they were protected in a little copse, and the allure of getting warm and dry again was too much to resist. She scuttled forwards, closer to the flames, holding her hands out to them.

"Here," he said, crouching by her and rummaging about in a sack, producing first a chunk of bread, then a portion of what looked like ham. He grinned at her face. For a moment everything was forgotten but the simple joy of food. The bread was perfectly crusty, the ham deliciously salted. She downed the offerings, licking her fingers then looking at him a little guiltily.

"I ate already," he said. He reached into a pocket and held out a small bag. It clanked with promise as he shook it.

"No horses?" Brienne asked, partly in jest.

"I was new to the game," Jaime said seriously, "well, this particular variation anyway. I'm sure I could have _won_ horses by the end of the night, but some sleep was in order. Have some of this."

He'd tucked away the coins and produced a leather flagon.

Brienne eyed it. "Is it intoxicating?"

Jaime took an experimental sip. "Mildly," he decided.

"I do not take such things."

"Seven hells, woman! It'll warm your belly."

"And lower my standards I imagine, having seen others who choose to indulge. I'm sure that would provide an entertaining story for you to laugh at with your friends."

With disarming frankness he said, "I don't have any friends."

Brienne gestured, not wishing to be distracted from the point. "Your...cronies. Associates. Fellow soldiers. Lords like the two back at the inn."

"I'd have dispatched both of them if you'd asked me nicely. Maybe even if you'd been rude about it. I despise such—" he struggled for words for an instant and concluded—"coxcombs."

He was offering the drink again and after another moment Brienne accepted, taking a swallow. It was sweeter than she'd expected and not unpleasant. Still, she passed it back.

Jaime leaned against a rock, stretched out his boots towards the fire and made a sound of grunting contentment.

"One of us should stay awake," Brienne said. She heard the reluctance in her own voice and felt uncharacteristically selfish; but she was just so very tired.

"Go ahead and sleep, my lady. I'll keep watch for a while."

She nearly felt tears surface—it was the exhaustion and the comfort of being warm and fed and safe again, and the way he had spoken, without mockery, almost gently. Ridiculous to feel so grateful. But she did. She hunkered back down, close to the fire and to him.

"I also found out where we are," he said.

"Mm." Brienne was almost back in her dream. Tomorrow would be soon enough to find out where they were.

Jaime said something but she couldn't be sure what it was. She was already under the waterfall.

Later, she was vaguely aware that the fire had died to ashes. She was also aware of Jaime having lain down at her side.

"What are you doing."

"Trying to get warm," he mumbled.

He was curled up behind her like a giant puppy, although probably not nearly so harmless. Brienne lay still, uncertain whether she should leap to alertness (her foggy mind argued against it) or give in to her as yet unassuaged fatigue.

"You stink like rotting bodies," she objected, without much vigor.

He shifted and murmured, "You do not smell very good either."

Tomorrow—today, if the dark was lightening at all—she meant to find a way to wash properly.

"I should stand watch," she said.

"Mmph."

Just a few more moments and she would get up. It wasn't fair not to. Funny how, when you were this kind of exhausted, the warm body next to you was just another warm body, a tired breathing creature like yourself trying to survive the night. It wasn't Jaime Lannister at all.

He yawned into the back of her neck.

Brienne's eyes slid closed again.


	7. Chapter 7

Light filtered through her eyelids. Brienne came awake suddenly.

Jaime's arm was thrown across her, not really in an amorous manner, but as if he found her a comfortable bed bolster. Still, it was a little unnerving. She elbowed back into his ribs. He grunted and pulled away, rolling upright.

She sat up too, muttering that she had not intended to sleep through their watch. He mumbled equably that they were still alive.

They breakfasted on more of the bread and ham from the previous night, and she asked him what he had found out about their location. It seemed they were nearest to the town of Duskendale, so quite a bit further east than she had imagined. Jaime intended to go there to regroup, rather than trying to struggle on foot and unsupplied to King's Landing. It appeared the more sensible plan so she couldn't think of a reason to do otherwise.

"And no one recognized you?" she pressed, as they set out again. He was leading the way, marching with confidence down a path he must have discovered the night before. Through the trees she could catch glimpses of the settlement they were skirting around.

"Mostly pig farmers," he said, shrugging in easy disdain.

"Pig farmers with coin?" Brienne asked skeptically.

"Well, that's why I didn't get much. Tight-fisted, the lot of them. And not over-bright. I'd be surprised if they recognized their own king, much less myself."

"I appreciate your attempt at humility just now, but at least they are making an effort at honest living, no matter how distasteful you find it."

"I don't find it distasteful. That ham was prime quality."

"Always full of japes," she sighed.

"Oh, well, if it pleases you, I shall endeavour to be grave today. Though I think the combined weight of my dourness added to yours might very well send the sun back abed and bring a monstrous rainstorm of gloom upon us."

She said with a touch of despair, "Truly you love nothing so well as the sound of your own voice."

"What do you love, Brienne?" He glanced back over his shoulder at her. She was unprepared for the question and when he stopped, so did she.

He elevated an eyebrow.

She shifted the weight of her sword from one hand to the other. Suddenly it seemed very heavy. Aware of muscles clenching in her back, she said stiffly (because it was apparent he wasn't going to move until she answered), "I love truth."

"You love an abstract construct?"

"It's not a vague concept. Either something is true or it's not."

"So unsophisticated. We have to work on that."

"We have much to work on with _you_," she said, anger swelling despite her attempt to override it. He was constantly doing this: bringing a discussion point right to the edge of something real and genuine, then holding back, refusing to commit.

"Why do you always want to talk about me when I am trying to talk about you?" he complained.

"Because you are a far more interesting—did I say interesting, I meant problematic—subject!" Brienne realized she was on the verge of shouting.

He regarded her with an analytical eye. "You want to swing that sword at me right now, don't you?"

"Yes," she said, since she was, after all, trying to teach him it was important to tell the truth even if one was furious. Even if it hurt.

"I wouldn't," he said. "Your anger's leading, not your skill."

"Test me if you like," Brienne bit back.

He smiled, almost indulgently, and turned away.

But she was ready, and a moment later when he spun back, though lightning-fast, his sword swinging up and out—she parried.

He grinned at her through their crossed blades.

"_Don't_," she said. "I'm not playing."

"I'm not playing either."

The weapons clashed again.

_I will take that smile off your face before this is done_, she vowed, lunging.

The world reduced to the sounds of their skirmish. Breaths, sword-scrape and clang, branches breaking underfoot. They continued to battle. Brienne became aware at some point that the scrap itself was, in fact, calming her down. There was something about the patterns she was naturally falling into that encouraged control. Rhythm. Discipline. Jaime, too, had lost his grin and was concentrating, which helped her to treat it like a training exercise. Although she was still deadly serious. She didn't know what would happen if he made a mistake. It didn't occur to her to worry about making one herself. And as the moments passed by, she began to realize that she was, on a professional level, admiring the style and skill for which he had come to be known throughout the Seven Kingdoms.

"Stop," Jaime said, after a long period of silence.

"Are you getting tired?" She held his sword at bay for a moment.

"Brienne," he said, his voice going up conversationally, "_stop_."

She did, surprising herself. Whether it was the voice of the weapons master instead of Jaime's that she heard, or whether she knew it was just time, she did, driving the tip of the sword into the ground, isolating it, giving her last action a chance to connect with something solid.

He lowered his own sword then, eyes on her. "You realize that if you did manage to kill me, you wouldn't be able to keep your promise to Catelyn Stark? And I'm not sure what, other than angering your father, my killing _you_ would accomplish."

He circled her in a rather predatory manner, but she had taken a step back from her sword, not about to pick it up again. She stared into the middle distance, not able to look at him.

"You weren't _trying_ to kill me, were you?"

"No," she said, softly.

"I don't believe you."

"It's as you say," she said, willing her breathing to slow and even out. "If I don't get you to King's Landing—I have nothing to bargain with."

"So stay focused." He was right behind her when he said it, leaning into her shoulder, almost at her ear.

_I'm trying_, she thought furiously. She could never have imagined what a difficult promise this would prove to keep.

"Get your sword," Jaime said, then, lighter. "And let's go."

She did.

Hours later they finally stopped to rest again. The air between them remained bleak, without any further exchange of conversation. The peak of midday had passed. They had seen a few smallfolk coming and going near distant farms and fields, but there had been no close encounters.

The weather remained fine and clear and the night promised to be warmer than the last.

They kept going.

* * *

Jaime's legs were tired.

As he had earlier announced, marching through the Crownlands like an ordinary foot soldier was not his preferred method of travel. But there was no way around it until they got to Duskendale. A day or two anyway, he estimated, based on the information he'd gleaned back at the village settlement.

By the time the shadows were lengthening and the moon could be seen beyond the horizon, he picked a spot to bed down. The pleasant valley still retained the sun-warmth from earlier that day, and there was a shallow river beyond for drinking water and washing, which would serve his purpose well, since he recalled Brienne saying something about rotting corpses.

She was still angry at him, or if it wasn't anger, something else he didn't feel qualified to define. He never pretended to understand women in general, and Brienne was no ordinary example of a woman. She did appear subdued, however, not actually radiating the kind of anger she had at the start of their swordfight. Well and good, if she _was_ subdued. Maybe she realized he couldn't keep up not injuring her (or worse) indefinitely.

It wasn't cool enough to warrant a fire and he didn't feel like building one, anyway. But he dragged a couple of storm-downed trees into cross angles to provide something for them to sit up against.

Brienne looked very tired. She was just resting, with closed eyes, occasionally brushing at her face—which was doubtless itchy, in various stages of healing—with her knuckles.

Jaime leaned back into the v-shaped shelter of trees and closed his own eyes, inhaling the earthy smell of bark and decomposing plant matter, far more pleasant than decomposing animal matter. There was a hum of evening birdsong in the trees that was quite soporific.

* * *

When dark had settled, and Jaime seemed to have fallen asleep, Brienne stretched her stiffening muscles and quietly got up. At last, her chance to have the bath she'd been thinking about since the previous evening. The banks sloped down to the river, putting it out of sight from their sleeping spot. After a hesitation at the water's edge, she stripped off her quilted padding, tunic and trousers, and stepped bare into the water. She longed to bring her clothes in to wash too, but did not want to face the idea of sleeping in them wet or even damp again.

With a sigh of satisfaction she went under the surface and out again, smoothing her hair back from her face, feeling the gentle current tug at her legs. It wasn't very deep. She began to wade further to the center. Bathing in the dark was a little intimidating, even after getting used to the temperature, but the moon was bright and illuminated the surface of the water. And there was something about swimming unclothed at night that could not help but make one feel—if not alluring exactly (she blushed at the silliness of the thought) at the very least, not as unattractive as normal.

Jaime appeared, striding down the bank with a complete lack of self-consciousness despite the fact he was just as completely naked. For a few moments Brienne was stunned into a lack of reaction. Then she sank quickly under the water to her shoulders. It seemed a more dignified choice than fleeing.

"Ah," he said, spotting her, and if he was feigning surprise, she couldn't tell in the moonlight. "I thought you'd gone somewhere."

"Go—get away." She shooed at the water in front of her ineffectively.

"Why? There's plenty of room." His gesture took in the long expanse of the river. She stared at a fixed point above his head because he was still standing there unashamed.

"I do not wish to bathe with you!"

"That's not very generous." He began, slowly, to wade into the water. Not far from her. She held her ground, however. "You were the one chastising me for how terribly I smelled. Besides, it's dark. I can't see anything, if that's what you're worried about." He sounded faintly derisive.

"I'm not worried," she muttered.

"No? Let me see you go put your clothes on then."

"I will not, you...deviate. I just got here. If anyone leaves first it will be you."

"The enormity of your stubbornness," Jaime said, "is matched, perhaps, only by your naivete." He squinted into the moonlight at her. She was about to turn her back on him when he added abruptly, "Still. You are a good sword to have around in a fight."

The terse masculine compliment left her unable to reply, rooted to her current spot in the water. Damn him. She could see how he could be an inspiring leader, a force for good, with only the slightest effort; he had that much natural charisma.

She scrubbed at the skin on her arms, self-consciously seeking an occupation. It was all very well to dally languorously in the water like a mermaid of legend when one was alone, but accompanied, it felt ridiculous.

Jaime was exploring the back of his head and wincing. Brienne recalled belatedly he too must have sustained an injury, the night of their capture. She didn't usually see pain reflected on his face. Instinctively she came a little closer. "Are you—"

"It's fine," he said, dropping his hand, and then, somewhat more mildly, "Just tell me what it looks like, will you?"

She swam to his side, pushing him into the water and turning him away from her so that the interaction would feel less inappropriate.

"Ow," he said, floundering against her not-so-gentle ministrations. "Try not to drown me."

She put one hand on his head and used her other to pushed away the damp hair at the back, though he flinched. "The skin is split, and you have a lump," she announced professionally.

"I know that," he muttered. "It hurts."

"Now who's being a girl? I think it will heal if you don't damage it again."

"I didn't damage it the first time."

She remembered; he'd mouthed off to their guard so she could have a drink of water. She felt a twinge of guilt, and patted him awkwardly on the shoulder.

He made an equally uncomfortable sound in his throat and edged upriver.


	8. Chapter 8

Brienne had just drifted off into sleep when Jaime muttered something and shook her out of it. She was lying on her side; he was a few feet away. She threw an arm up over her ear, hoping to block out any further sound.

"I didn't," he said suddenly, clearly.

"Shut up, Jaime," she mumbled.

"I said I _didn't_—" he said again, angrily this time.

"All right, you didn't! Now shut up, please."

He sighed.

Since she was awake now anyway, Brienne thrust herself up on her elbow and looked over her shoulder at him. His eyes were closed. In the light of the moon falling across his face she could see his forehead was furrowed as if sleep required intense concentration. His head rested on his elbow, curled into it like a child's. What had his childhood been like, she wondered irrelevantly. It couldn't have been normal, surely. Someone must have mistreated him, for his sarcasm to be so ready.

Even though he had the power to make her completely crazy at times—hence the swordfight earlier that day—she didn't hate him.

She didn't even think of him as _kingslayer_ any more. Though it was something he had done, it was not what he _was_.

Jaime's lips moved again but without sound this time.

"Ssh," she said now, gently, and did a most ridiculous, inexplicable thing, which she never would have done if it hadn't been the middle of the night and he was sleeping so he couldn't mock her for it; she leaned over and smoothed the still-damp, shaggy hair away from his forehead. "Ssh."

The action was calming even for her, and before long she felt drowsiness settling into her limbs again. She put her own elbow under her head, mirroring him, and let her hand fall on the ground between them.

* * *

When morning came, they followed the river downstream until it brought them to a bridge, where there was a road running east and west. Going east would take them to Duskendale.

"Who shall we save today, Brienne?" Jaime paused at the roadside, which bordered a field and was lined by straggling apple trees. He used his sword to poke upwards into the branches of one, freeing a slightly scarred apple, which he then caught as it fell.

Tranquilly she watched him. "That is entirely up to you. If we see someone in need of assistance, I will leave it to your conscience."

"Really? Because I have a feeling you wouldn't be able to ignore it if you saw something happening. Breakfast." Jaime tossed the apple at her.

"I have faith you will make the right decision."

"Want to bet on it?" He knocked another of the fruit down and took a bite out of his.

"No," she replied, "but only because I am not a betting person in general, not because—" She hesitated.

He waited for her to finish. When she didn't he lifted expectant eyebrows.

"Not because I—necessarily—mistrust you." To hide her confusion Brienne bit into her own fruit.

"Well," Jaime said, swallowing his mouthful of apple, "I won't pretend I enjoy the burden of your expectations, but I suppose you can't help having them. Want another one?"

"This will serve, thank you."

They walked in amicable silence past scythe-mown fields colored buttery yellow by the sunrise.

* * *

Brienne understood the necessity of stopping at the Dun Fort, the castle overlooking the coast at Duskendale, but she felt ambivalence about arriving there under these circumstances, and with this particular companion. She was a enough of an anomaly with her full set of armor and a fine horse, much less straggling on foot and impecunious, depending on the goodwill of their host for food and shelter and supplies. Whether or not Jaime shared her feelings she couldn't tell; he was acting his customary blithe self, ignoring the stares and remarks of folk in the background as they were let in to the keep. Brienne envied his insouciance and wished she could duplicate it. But she felt downtrodden and she knew it showed.

It was late afternoon at the time of their arrival, and so they were given rooms and invited to dinner in the hall. Jaime left Brienne at her door and with an inscrutable wink went next door to his. She found the chamber rather small and musty, with the dank odor of an exterior wall facing the sea, but at least a fire had been lit in the hearth. She asked for water to wash with and some was brought; lukewarm, but this too was bearable enough. She was told they would find her more suitable clothes, which she had expected. Her own were torn, blood-stained, and quite rank besides.

Her face was healing well. The injury Jaime had given her was pink and clean. It might not scar that badly after all. The more recent was still very raw and she could only dab gingerly on that side of her face. She supposed, drearily, it would all make for riveting dinner discussion, since their hosts were sure to point them out. Not for the first time in her life Brienne indulged in a few moments of vicious self-pity, wondering how it must be to be able to blend in, to drift by in shadows, to pass crowds unnoticed.

She did not believe in rebirth, but now she thought, if she did, she wished to be one of two things: strong and strapping like she was, but a _man. _A man who could go anywhere unchallenged and unchecked, praised rather than ridiculed for his height and reticence. And if not that, then she would settle for being a woman, but one who was tiny, who bore the shape of a slender vase round above and below, with no thickness or strength about her.

Such thoughts were uncharacteristically self-indulgent, not worthy of any modest man or woman, and Brienne told herself sternly to stop.

But just once, it would be nice to win a man's admiring glance as she walked by him, would it not?

_Jaime gave you such an admiring glance once—only it was for what you did with a sword, not for your appearance_, she reminded herself, a little bitterly. Might as well hope for the krakens to rise up out of the sea and join a land battle as to hope for Jaime to recognize her in that way.

Not that she wanted him to.

Just some man, sometime. Somehow.

She grunted in disgust with herself then, and brought water up to splash over her head and smooth her hair down. Enough of such mawkish mental meanderings.

* * *

By the time dinner hour had arrived Jaime was both famished and bored. He'd had nothing to do over the last couple of hours but wash, dress in the provided clothes (which fit excellently) and preen. He had scraped the stubble off his jaws, and his hair (while hopelessly in need of cutting) was now clean. His appearance pleased him. After all, no matter how good a name one bore, it was important to look the part.

He sauntered down the hall, buckling on his new sword-belt, and tapped on Brienne's door.

"Come in," she bade him, through the heavy wooden door. Her voice was dispirited. What was it now?

Brienne was sitting on the edge of the bed, very straight-backed, when he opened the door. She was staring at the fire, her hands folded in her lap.

He started to make a crack about her not being ready yet but he realized she was. She was wearing a blue dress that had obviously belonged to a woman twice as wide as her and two-thirds as tall. Though still decent, the effect was comical at best, ridiculous at worst.

If she had faced him with blazing eyes and a defensive attitude, he might have gone ahead and made one of any number of possible jests. But she looked at him with a beaten gaze. Dry-eyed, but dismal.

He hesitated for a moment. Then he said, "The color of the seas of Tarth becomes you, my lady."

Brienne stared at him and then back at the fire.

She thought he was mocking. Of _course_ she thought he was mocking. He usually _was_ mocking.

Just not right now. If you could look beyond the obvious, it really did go well with her pale coloring, her blue eyes. He had thought for a while now she had lovely eyes.

He sighed internally. He was very hungry and a little tired. He was looking forward to drinking much at dinner and sleeping in a bed tonight. And riding a horse out of this wretched port town in the morning. But none of those things was going to be accomplished if he couldn't improve her mood long enough to get her downstairs.

He came over and sat down on the edge of the bed beside her, adjusting his sword to the side, out of the way.

"They didn't bring _me_ a sword belt," Brienne said, flatly, quietly.

"I'll get you one before we leave here."

She didn't move.

He brought his shoulder to hers, giving her a gentle nudge. "How do I look?"

"Very fine," she said, again with no tone.

That wasn't the right gambit, then. He considered.

"You had better go down," Brienne said. "It's late, they will be waiting."

"You have to come with me."

"Why, are you in need of a bodyguard?"

He sighed. "Don't be obnoxious."

She froze up again.

"By all the gods, Brienne. Are you going to make me say it? Fine. It would very much please me if you would let me escort you down to dinner."

He watched her. The corners of her mouth turned up the slightest bit.

"No, no. Don't let me see that. If you smile, we're not going down."

"I'm not a child," she protested, but with some energy, and the smile was starting in earnest, despite her efforts to keep it back.

Jaime stood up and held out his arm for her. "Let's go, then, my lady."

She looked up at him, and there was something in her face he couldn't read, and it made him nervous because it felt like he might have to start being gallant all over again, but then she stood, putting her hand on his arm somewhat diffidently, and they went out of the room together.

Dinner could only be considered a success in the respect that they were fed well. Their host was jocular and by turns equal parts irritating and uninformed. At several intervals Jaime longed to pick up a fish from the platter and give him a slap with it. He could only guess at how Brienne felt, when the lord's treatment of her bordered on insulting. She remained silent in the face of sniggering looks and half-heartedly undertone comments sent her way, and only pretended to eat her food, which bothered him because they'd had nothing since their breakfast of apples. Though he had intended to drink well into the night, he excused both himself and Brienne as soon as he could without giving obvious offense, blaming their exhaustion on their recent injuries.

They went silently back up the winding castle stairs and halls, mindful of any lurking members of the household, but Jaime followed Brienne into her room and closed the door (he tried to slam it, but it was too heavy), there to drop down on her bed and gaze up at the ceiling. "Well, the soup was good, anyway."

Brienne made no reply. She was by the fire, examining her clothes to see if they were dry yet.

He sat up, restlessly, remembering something. "Look. I stuffed this in my pocket." He pulled out a slightly squished round of bread that he'd nabbed from the table when no one was looking.

Brienne stared at him wordlessly and turned back to the clothes.

"You ate nothing!" he said. "I was watching."

"So," he continued to talk to himself because she was ignoring him, "I just thought, you know, you might—"

"I might be hungry? Because I'm a monstrous beast, this tall, this big, I must need to be constantly fed?"

Chastised, he muttered, "You're being a girl again."

"I _am_ a girl, Ser Jaime! I am a woman! And it—" She broke off, her voice catching. "It hurts," she said, biting the words until they became no more than whispers, "when I am only treated as one according to the whim of others."

He couldn't think of anything to say in reply to this. He left the bread on the table by the fire, and, for something to do, added another log to the flames for her. It was very dark in the room, and these dank eastern sea castles were impossible to keep warm. Whoever had brought up the wood allotment hadn't been over-generous, either. He stood and stared into the fire for a while, not wanting to go back to his room to be alone and bored.

"We'll get out of here in the morning," he said. "Get horses and go. Yes?"

She nodded. She had gone to sit back down on the bed again. "I am very tired," she murmured.

"Speak plainly," he said shortly. "You usually do. If you want me to go, say so."

"I don't mean to sleep just yet," Brienne demurred.

He tossed a curlicue of bark onto the flames, watching them devour it and turn blue, green, purple in quick succession. "I could tell you a story."

He glanced back at her. After a moment she said with cautious surprise, "Real or invented?"

"You would have to decide that after you heard it. And I need a drink first." Jaime went to the door and called for a servant, requesting libations when a housemaid finally appeared. He had successfully caught Brienne's attention. She waited in alert silence, and when a pitcher of wine finally arrived, Jaime took several long emboldening swallows of it before commencing his tale.

He told her the story of how he had come to be called Kingslayer. Brienne said nothing while he talked, but sat mute as a child. When at last he stopped speaking and finished his wine, he looked at her.

She was wide-eyed, and after a period of silence, asked why he was telling her this now.

He lifted one shoulder in an idle shrug. The wine, a more potent vintage than he'd expected, was having its effect. "Doesn't matter."

"Doesn't it?" she said.

"As you are fond of reminding me, I like to hear myself speak." He turned on her. "And I could think of no better story...if you didn't like it, my apologies."

"I am glad to hear anything that is true." Brienne sounded uncertain. "But I think you are as tired as I am. Perhaps you should..."

"Mm." He moved, rather unsteadily, towards the bed, and fell across it.

"Not here," he heard her protest, but his head was spinning and his own room seemed very far away, and if she needed him to be there she could drag him down the hall, she was strong enough.

* * *

Brienne couldn't account for Jaime's sudden indisposition unless there was something in the wine to be blamed. They did not leave the next morning, as he spent the night in her room, slightly fevered and completely incoherent, and as much as she disliked and now distrusted their hosts, it still seemed a better idea to have him recover here rather than in the forest.

She didn't get any sleep. It was impossible, when he would lie completely still for a few moments, long enough for her to believe that she might close her eyes and rest at his side, then abruptly he would flail out, kicking her in the shins or elbowing her in the ribs. Once he rolled over, clasped her startled head in both hands and mumbled (she couldn't quite hear since he was covering her ears) something about the efficacy of employing a false style of swordplay against an unfamiliar opponent. He would not let her go until she agreed. After that she pulled the heavy chair to the bedside and sat next to him but out of reach. When his fever spiked she knelt by his head with a shallow basin and sponged his skin with a damp rag and cool water, over and over again until her shoulders ached and until he finally calmed.

The servants were biddable enough that first day, if uninclined to respond swiftly, and when they brought bone broth upon her request she made the housemaid take some of it herself, first. When the girl had suffered no ill effects as of an hour or two later, Brienne tried to feed some of the soup to Jaime, with little success. Yet now that his fever was down she felt confident he would recover quickly.

She was changing back into her own clothing, now clean and dry, when Jaime was in a silent sleep, the only sound his soft breathing. Brienne pulled on her trousers, fastened the quilted padding over her under-tunic and stretched out the muscles in her neck and arms. She was tired, but not unbearably so. No denying it had been a bit irksome to play nursemaid but she had no intention of letting the lackwit staff care for him.

"Is it morning," Jaime mumbled drowsily.

She whirled around, but his eyes were closed. Though that was no proof of anything. "No, evening."

"Was I sick? Am I sick?"

"How do you feel?"

"I don't know. Bring me water."

"Please," he added, when she shot him a look.

She carried the pitcher to his side and put a hand behind his head to help him drink. "I will confess to having little experience and possibly even less skill in nursing, but you should know you are a terrible patient."

"How so?"

"You were very restless. And very talkative."

"I suppose I said a lot of nonsense?"

"No more than usual."

"Mm," he conceded. "We were supposed to leave today."

"Tomorrow is soon enough, if you feel better. There is no hurry."

"Don't go down to dinner without me."

"Why not?"

Jaime yawned and adjusted the bolster cushion behind his head again. "Because I can only imagine the mess I'd have to clean up if our host offended you and I wasn't there to smooth things over."

"I'm not in the habit of losing my temper," Brienne said drily.

"I'm fairly good at making you lose it."

"You are special."

He smiled.

"Also quite conceited."

He looked around. "Staying in your room like this will make them talk."

"It was not my idea."

His face grew serious. "You do know, don't you, that it's not my desire to make your life any more difficult than it has to be."

"I appreciate that," she said, "but it does not matter to me what people think."

"Well, if it doesn't, and I think you're lying, it should. Since you _are_ a woman. It should matter to you what people think of your—" he gestured vaguely. "...ethical status."

"Do you mean my virginity?" Brienne asked, refusing to be embarrassed, and nearly succeeding at it.

"That too. If you ever want to be part of any kind of decent Westerosi society...if such a thing exists." His lip curled fractionally. "I am not the person you should be spotted with."

"You're not, perhaps, as unworthy as you think," Brienne said quietly, knowing she had to be careful with how she phrased such a comment.

"Oh, I believe I am quite unworthy."

It was odd, and oddly hurtful, to see him turn the cynicism he so often bore down on others upon himself.

"I am, after all, still the Kingslayer."

"But the story you told me, last night—"

"I don't tell that story to just anyone."

She absorbed the faint scorn in his voice and got to the core of it. So she was not merely anyone. That was both flattering and a little frightening.

"People always see what they want to see," she said at last. "If they perceive you unjustly, you must try harder to make them see what you want them to."

"That's good advice for your own self, is it not?"

Brienne looked down. "We can often stand to take our own advice."

They were both quiet for a while. Eventually Jaime said, "Once we're back in the city, it will be like it is here."

"Worse," Brienne said.

"I want you to prepare yourself for that." He sounded grim. For some reason it faintly amused her—that he was only just realizing how hard it was for a woman like her to be a man in a man's sphere of existence?

"I'm not being funny." He must have noticed her curve of lip and was now scowling. "You don't like being mocked, do you? They'll eat you alive in King's Landing and spit you out, bone by bone. And my sister will be leading the charge."

"But I have you to defend me," she said, with a tranquil, unexpectedly coquettish confidence that was inherently feminine.

This seemed to make him uneasy. He said, "I think you think I have more power than I actually do."

"Perhaps," Brienne agreed. "We will see, soon enough, how it goes."

"Mm," he said, not sounding pleased. "Just stay away from Cersei."

"If she is so dangerous, perhaps you should stay away from her as well."

He smiled, but also acknowledging her point. "And not just her," he said. "Stay away from any of my relatives. Promise me."

"Jaime, you are being—"

"Promise!"

"Very well." She sighed. "I will endeavour to avoid all Lannisters."

He seemed to relax a little then.


	9. Chapter 9

The following day they left the Dun Fort supplied with horses—of dubious breeding and conditioning, to be sure, but Brienne wasn't inclined to complain. Jaime seemed to have recovered from his indisposition, and for her part she was just happy to be surrounded by fresh air again instead of the damp walls of the keep. And though a week's worth of travel to King's Landing was still ahead of them, she knew it would pass quickly. The truth was, and she was close to being able to admit it to herself, she could relax around him now. So much so that she was worried it was going to be obvious to others that they had become companions (of a sort) rather than guard and prisoner.

But that was all still days away. For the moment, she enjoyed their slightly competitive gallop side-by-side down the road in the evening sunlight, Jaime shouting encouragement at his animal and decrying hers as a swaybacked nag. It was the sort of carefree fun that was actually rather foreign to her, that she had to remember was not meant to be serious or solve any real problems, it was just what it was—a few moments of play before the benevolent sunset, something to be over as soon as it was begun.

Her horse won the impromptu race to the unvoiced but mutually agreed upon terminus, marked by the massive lone pine at the curve in the road. She pulled back into a canter, giving the animal a pat with her free hand. "Good girl."

"Are you glad I declined your bet?" she called over to Jaime who was catching up.

He made an unconcerned sound. "We'll win the next one. Mine didn't have much of a breakfast this morning."

"A competent rider never blames his horse's lack of breakfast."

They had slowed to let the animals rest from the madcap pace. The clouds were streaked with pale pink and purple, a pretty bruise on the face of the sky. Jaime gestured at a low stone wall running up towards the hill. At its end stood a thatched cottage with a trough out front. "Want to see if we can water them there?"

Brienne gave a nod by way of according to the suggestion. She was not that weary but the horses had reached their day's end. Perhaps they could shelter in the woods beyond, though it was early.

They dismounted and walked the animals up the incline. An uninterested goat languidly cropped grass at the side of the house. As Jaime looped the leads of their horses over the post by the trough, the front door creaked open and a child darted out, barefoot and in a dirty shift.

"We only want to water the horses," Jaime said, soothingly, though the child didn't seem particularly alarmed by their arrival. "Is your father or mother inside?"

"Wait," Brienne said. "I hear...something."

Jaime groaned. "You always hear something."

Brienne reached for her sword, regardless, and stepped forward, trying to give the...girl?—difficult to tell by the mess of tangled blond hair alone—what she hoped was a reassuring smile. The child raced back inside, not bothering to close the door.

"Hold on," Jaime said. "I'll go first."

Brienne had an odd premonition and no desire to argue. She hoped no one—the child's parents, particularly—was dead. Not with the little one surviving to see it. Biting the inside of her cheek, she waited while Jaime drew his own sword and went in.

It was hard to see at first, even looking past his shoulder, the interior was unlit and with the sun failing. All she could make out initially was the child's pale dress, his—her—form crouched by a shape near the wall. And then the shape let out a moan of agony, and they could see it was a woman laboring.

Jaime took a step back, bumping into Brienne. As their eyes adjusted Brienne could see the woman staring at them dully, her face glazed with pain. If the sight of two armed strangers entering her home was frightening to her, she was too far in the throes of her mothering pains to show it or perhaps even care.

For a moment all Brienne could think was, _that will never, ever be me_, and that thought was immensely relieving.

"No," Jaime said. "No, no, no, no, no, no. I didn't have anything to do with this."

Brienne couldn't reply. She actually couldn't. She didn't want to be there either. But she was fascinated. The child was looking at them too.

"This is your mother? Where's your father?" Jaime sounded too loud, almost accusing but the child said unexpectedly, "Gone for the midwife."

"Good. Right. Then, that's all right then. They'll be back soon." After a moment Jaime put his sword back in the belt as if he had only just realized it wasn't going to be needed.

"No one's nearby," Brienne said, under her breath.

"So you go and sit with her."

"Me? I know nothing about child-birthing."

He flung a look over his shoulder. "You're a wo—"

"Finish that thought, and you will sorely regret it," she said, with steel in her voice.

"All right! What am _I _supposed to do?"

"Pray to the Mother," Brienne murmured, unsure herself if she were joking or serious.

Jaime's response to this was a curse so heartfelt it rather _did_ resemble a prayer. The woman was beginning to pant again, low and long in the way of a creature, and the child left her side and darted around the room like a frightened stag.

Jaime went then and crouched down by the wall. He reached out for the woman, holding his hand aloft for a moment, then letting it rest on her shoulder. "Right," he said, over her noisy breathing. "You've done this before. You can do it again, can't you? You have to," he persisted, when she pushed his arm away, and but he calmly, unexpectedly, replaced it, squeezing her shoulder. Then he glanced back at Brienne and with an abrupt shift in tone said, "_Get_ that youngster out of here, if you will do nothing else."

She almost told him she knew no more about children than she did about birthing babies, but he was right. Quickly she captured the child in a corner and scooped him up, bringing him outdoors. "Help me water the horses," she said, because it needed to be done, too, and it was the only thing she could think of to say.

The child stood by Jaime's horse and patted its neck methodically over and over again while it drank.

"What's your name?" Brienne asked, trying to drown out the mother inside, who had just shouted something angrily. Perhaps Jaime had said something stupid.

"Lanor," was the soft answer.

No help to determining gender. It didn't much matter, of course. The wailing within increased, and Brienne began to talk quickly, about the horses and how far they had ridden today and their race, and she felt like a fool but the child was listening and not seeming upset, and at least this was some distraction for both of them. She talked about how the sun was disappearing beyond the horizon and how it would be a fine night, no rain, that was a good omen for the new baby to be born by (whether or not this was true she had no idea, but it seemed a nice sentiment), and was Lanor excited to have a new sibling? Yes, since the mother had had two brothers or sisters before now and had lost both of them. Brienne ended that line of discussion since it didn't seem especially encouraging. After some more nonsensical babble she decided to check indoors, and asked Lanor to keep an eye on the horses for them.

Inside, Jaime shot her a look of utter resentment but she was so proud of him for having remained at the woman's side that she didn't care. The mother was slumped sideways, nearly in his lap, and was startlingly silent.

"Is she—"

"Well of course she's still alive, I would have yelled if she were dead. She's just _resting_."

"Do you need me to do anything?"

"I'm fine," he said with insincere cheerfulness. "You might bring us some water. Clean water, not horse water."

"Yes, I think I understand." Brienne resisted the urge to be droll. Going out again, she asked Lanor where to find potable water and was directed to the nearby stream, returning shortly with a full bucket which she carried inside. Jaime helped the woman to drink a little before having some himself.

The night wore on. Lanor came back inside and curled up in a corner and somehow managed to fall asleep there. The woman labored. Even with the one window's shutters thrown open, allowing for cool air to come through, the room grew thick with the smell of pain and sweat and blood. Jaime occasionally swore. Brienne leaned back against the wall near Lanor's small sleeping body and twice half-heartedly offered to take Jaime's place for a while. He didn't accept.

By the time the woman was too hoarse to cry out anymore and the darkness was just allowing them all to see each other again, the baby came. Somehow. Brienne didn't know how. All she could see under the window's dawn-light was Jaime gingerly lifting a fragile squalling thing and wrapping it in some nearby fabric that was not likely to have been clean, and holding it for a few moments, his jaw grim and tired, before giving it into its mother's arms. Then there was, strangely, a blessed sort of silence, though they were all awake, and just before the proper break of dawn the midwife and the father had returned. The husband was too happy his wife had survived to care much for their presence one way or the other, and the midwife began at once to tend to her duties, assuring Brienne that all had gone as it should. With a quick goodbye to a yawning Lanor, Brienne slipped out in search of Jaime.

He was washing at the stream, sleeves pushed up, scrubbing his arms vigorously. He glanced over his shoulder, his expression undecipherable.

"The midwife said you did well," she said.

"Helped another wretched peasant into this world. Well done indeed."

"Jaime."

"What. Brienne."

"Are you angry at me?"

He was quiet for a moment, splashed water on his face, and then dried his hands on his knees and stood up. "Maybe."

"It's all right if you are. I wasn't especially helpful. I suppose I could have been. I felt like...you might have experienced this before."

He said nothing.

"Have you?" she pursued.

"I was with my sister when she gave birth." The briefness warned her that that was all he wanted to say on the matter.

She held out the leads of his horse. "Shall we ride?"

He took them, looped them around and over the horse's head, then swung up into the saddle, his eyes distant with memories she didn't have a right to know about. Nudging the horse into a quick trot, he started away through the trees.

Brienne mounted her own horse and followed after. With neither of them having had any rest, it was going to prove a long day.


	10. Chapter 10

_A/N: This is a long chapter, and the last. Thanks for reading._

* * *

Brienne was not sentimental, exactly, upon the eve of their arrival at King's Landing, their last night on the road together, yet it did provoke in her a certain amount of reflection.

"Why are you letting me do this?" she asked, watching his face in the firelight, remembering how he had seemed the very devil himself, the first time they'd sat around a fire together. He didn't look any different; it was her eyes that had changed.

"You swore an oath," Jaime said, reaching between his knees to gather a handful of dry evergreen needles, then tossing them onto the flames. "That should mean something to you, even if it doesn't to me."

"But—"

"And don't you know that bringing back the Kingslayer going to yield a certain amount of respect from people who otherwise might not have given you any?"

"Yes, only—"

"Only what? Gods, wench, say what you're thinking."

She wouldn't let herself get distracted into irritation. "It still seems like a big thing for you to do for me. I don't see how you benefit."

She was truly curious, but she regretted the words almost as soon as she'd said them because his lip curled cynically.

_Can we start over?_ She closed her eyes for a moment, seeing afterimages of the fire playing behind her lids.

"I fought you," he said. "You're good. You think I have so much pride? That I can't let a woman walk me through the streets? I can't stand in front of my family at the end of her sword?"

She didn't know how to react to this, because she felt her own confused pride now mingling with a piercing self-consciousness and a little shame.

_You're good_.

Simple, no condescension. She could hardly bear it. It made her feel ludicrously happy.

"But Sansa Stark—from their point of view, if you didn't _have_ to lose her—"

Jaime made an irritated gesture. "I don't care about Sansa Stark, I leave that sort of pawn-playing to my siblings. The south is no place for wolves."

Brienne supposed he was right about that.

"Let's get some sleep," he said then, brusquely, sliding down to settle near the base of the fire.

* * *

The next morning, coming into the city felt more awkward with a cooperative Jaime than a difficult one. Earlier they had stopped along the road and she had asked to see his hands. He had held them out obligingly. She had tied them together, trying to be careful, but he had said, "Bind them tighter; no one's going to be fooled by that." _I don't want to hurt you_, she'd thought, but could not say; at that moment she would almost rather their positions were reversed. He had not reacted when she'd tied them as tightly as she could manage, and they had ridden on.

It was with a sense of relief that she finally marched him into the throne room where Cersei Lannister and the guards waited. Soon this charade would be over, she would take charge of Sansa and they would be on their way to Winterfell, thus fulfilling her promise.

She would be saying goodbye to Jaime, too, though for some reason she was keeping that in the back of her mind to deal with later.

"So this is Catelyn Stark's sworn sword," Cersei remarked, almost pleasantly, though there was no warmth in her eyes, or even, Brienne thought, much humanity. "You are quite an imposing creature, my dear. Did my brother give you those scars on your face?"

"One of them," Jaime said. "It's a long story."

His twin's eyebrows arched. "I should very much like to hear it."

Brienne hoped Jaime would have the sense not to divulge the details of their convoluted trip south. Maybe he didn't. Maybe he and Cersei would, in private, share a laugh over it all. With the image of them in her mind drinking wine and laughing together, she gave Jaime a not-especially-gentle shove forward. He turned and looked over his shoulder at her. Calculated insolence for the benefit of anyone watching, but behind it the question: _what's the matter with you_?

"Stories can wait," Brienne said. "I need to see and be certain that Lady Stark's daughter is well before I can turn the Kingslayer over to you. I will wish to guard her tonight and I trust we will be assured safe passage out of the city in the morning."

"Of course," Cersei said, sighing with a dismissive gesture, as if the banality of discussing the actual details of a prisoner exchange was too tiresome to be borne. "The little dove is somewhere about. I will send for her. I don't think she has been very happy with us, though we have all made every effort to secure her good opinion. Perhaps she will be better off with her family after all. There is nothing, is there, quite like the love of one's own family?"

One of the guards had a sneezing fit. Brienne felt a little sorry for him because Cersei didn't seem pleased and she could well imagine what this glacially-eyed woman had done to people with whom she wasn't pleased.

"What did they say your name was—Brienne of Tarth?—they certainly breed them differently on your little island, don't they? If you would be so good as to free my brother now..."

Brienne put a hand on Jaime's shoulder and pulled him back towards her. She'd tied his hands in front so he could ride better. Now she turned him around in order to free them. He tipped his head back, shaking lengthening hair out of his face, while she used a dagger to saw through the bindings.

"Don't do anything stupid," she said to him, meaning it, hoping he read the message in her eyes as well as heard the spoken one. _Please don't do anything stupid. Don't talk to her about us. If you warn me away from her, you should stay away from her yourself._

But she was his sister, his twin. His mirror image. And their relationship was complicated, entangled, far more than most.

Though the hall was not especially well-lit, she could still see the marks on his wrists when the ropes came away. Out of instinct she nearly reached for them, to rub the blood back into them but he pulled away just a warning fraction before anyone could notice, and drew his brows together at her.

_Focus, Brienne_.

She wasn't entirely sure whose voice that was.

Sansa was being escorted in, she realized, after Jaime moved out of her reach. Catelyn's eldest daughter was composed, but pale as milk and with eyes that told of tears and sleepless nights. The two men paused by Brienne at a signal from Cersei.

"I am your sworn protector, my lady," Brienne said quietly. "Your mother charged me with your keeping; I will see you safely to Winterfell or die in the attempt."

Sansa nodded vaguely, her gaze uncertain; Brienne could see at once that the girl had been moved about so much that she didn't know who or what to believe. It might not be easy, conducting this second half of her assignment.

Cersei was giving instructions to the guards; she seemed to want Jaime to herself. Someone was preparing to show Brienne where Sansa's rooms were, and if she wished she could wait outside, though they would be guarded in any case, and when morning came they might be on their way. Brienne was only half-following the information as she went from the throne room with Sansa and the others. She turned and looked back to see Jaime for what she had to assume would be the last time, but he was already going to take his sister's hands in his own and that, she supposed with a feeling of nausea settling in her stomach, was as it should be. Or, at least, how it was with them, whether she liked it or not.

Brienne focused on their destination, on the walls around her and the various sets of stairs, committing to memory the details so that she could find her own way; she didn't trust the queen's assurances for a moment. The guards waited at the end of a long hallway while she and Sansa entered her rooms.

"Can you be ready by the morning?" Brienne asked, looking around.

"Of course," the girl said. "There is little of my own here, and nothing I care about." She went to stand by a table, looking away, distantly.

"I will be just outside the door this night. Call me if you need anything."

There was no acknowledgment, but after a moment Brienne inclined her head anyway and left.

Sitting watch in the hallway would be a hard way to pass the night, but it was her role, and doing what she was meant to do made her content. Or as content as it was possible to be considering she was in the city of vipers. Right at the heart of their nest.

It was oddly quiet. She could hear the guards behind the door at the end of the passage, shuffling and mumbling to each other now and then. Behind her in Sansa's room, nothing at all. She hoped the girl had retired immediately and was getting some rest for what was sure to be a grueling day tomorrow; Brienne intended to put as much distance between themselves and the city as was possible. If that meant she had to tie the girl to the saddle and drag her horse along behind, so be it. Their own comfort would have to take second place to the need to get to a location of relative safety.

Before long she saw the door to the passageway open and Cersei was admitted, gesturing to the men to stay beyond. Brienne had been sitting, but she rose up on her feet, trying to keep her hand from her sword. If the queen meant no harm she didn't want to appear obviously threatening, but there was something about Cersei Lannister that warned danger even if she hadn't already heard Jaime's cautions to stay away from his family.

Cersei approached, her hands invisible in the folds of her sleeves, a tiny smile on her face. She reminded Brienne of a beautiful snake she'd once come across at home, slender and smooth-skinned and wrapped in distracting bands of attractive color, yet her eyes were so glacial.

"Surely you need not stay out here? It does not get that cold, but it can hardly be comfortable."

"I do not care overmuch for comfort," Brienne said, not wanting to sound stony, but it came out that way.

"No," Cersei said, amused, "I don't believe you do. Nor for...appearance either, it would seem? Of course the world would be a tiresome place if we all looked the same, would it not?" She tilted her head to the side, giving the effect of an innocent child.

"Is there something you require, my lady?" Brienne met her gaze without bristling.

Cersei evaluated her for a few moments in silence. "I only wished to make certain you don't lack for anything," she said, unashamed by her obvious and actual absence of interest in Brienne's needs. "And I do confess to being curious at how you managed to keep my brother under such constant watch and captive for so long, when many have found it more difficult."

"He was by no means an easy prisoner," Brienne said. "I was never sure we would make it here."

Cersei made an enigmatic sound. "You answer so simply."

"Sometimes the truth _is_ simple."

"Indeed," Cersei said, though Brienne suspected that like Jaime, Cersei's definition of truth was rather complicated, often shifting with the winds. "Still, your success is mystifying to me."

"Because I am a woman? Can we not serve as well as a man?"

"Women are called to serve differently," Cersei answered. "As we generally have—different—attributes. Though in your case...I can see why you might have chosen to...Regardless." She made a moue. "You have my admiration. I will leave you to your attendance."

Brienne didn't think admiration was the feeling Cersei held for her at all; gentle scorn was more of the impression she was getting. But she dipped her head while Cersei turned and walked back down the passageway, robes swishing.

Once the door was closed again she sat back down, leaning against the outer wall and bringing her knees up, balancing her sword across them, preparing for the long night ahead.

* * *

Bathed now and in casual white linens, Jaime rejoined Cersei in her rooms, easing himself into one of the cushioned chairs out on the balcony where, if the night breeze was blowing the right way, the city didn't smell so terribly. Frowning, his sister poured him a drink and re-filled her already nearly empty one from the pitcher, then followed him out. She took a chair and pulled it close to his, settling gracefully into it at his side. She leaned over and touched the side of his head and he jerked away.

Her expression said he'd reacted too strongly. Perhaps he had. For a second he couldn't think how to explain the reaction and then he said, more calmly, "I was injured, it's still healing."

"Let me look at it." Her voice was soft, like honey, used as he was to Brienne's rough, deeper tones. Why he was comparing her to Brienne right now he couldn't imagine; surely two more disparate women had never existed.

"No. It's all right." He kept an eye on her, not quite trusting her not to touch him again, and for some reason he didn't want her that close, not just yet, when so much time had passed.

She sipped at her glass of wine, one dark eyebrow arched. "There's food," she said eventually, "if you're hungry."

He was tired more than hungry, the truth was. It was early for the city, but late when you had been going to sleep with the sun as they had for the past few weeks. He would have to stay up a little longer. She would think it odd if he suddenly claimed fatigue, though that was what he wanted to do: fall into a soft bed and pull a feather pillow over his head and not be woken by birdsong in the morning or Brienne's ungentle elbow in his ribs telling him he'd accidentally flung his arm over her in the middle of the night, heaven forfend.

He smiled.

"What's funny?" Cersei was smiling too, eager to be let in. And he looked at her, and he couldn't do it. He couldn't even make something up.

Her expression altered, just a touch, and she said smoothly, "That beast of a woman who brought you in was amusing, I thought. What a face! And yet she held you prisoner unassisted? Truly impressive."

"Maybe I'm not as good as I was," he said.

"Self-deprecation does not become you," Cersei remarked. "I can't believe it's that." She rose, putting down her wine, and came to stand behind him, putting gentle hands on his shoulders. He submitted to the contact now not because he really wanted to but because it felt good. But when she leaned in, her silky sweet hair brushing his face and her teeth nipping at his ear, he stiffened again, bringing his shoulder up.

She circled round his chair like a golden-maned wary lioness, crouching, resting her hands on the arms of the chair as if to trap him there. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing." He wouldn't shift or push her away, it was too obvious a rejection. "I don't like to be touched."

She laughed, lightly. "This is a new development." But her eyes were still keen, searching his face, the face she knew as well as her own.

"I'm tired," he said, expelling air through his teeth.

"Of course." Cersei rose in one fluid movement. "Will you talk to me tomorrow?"

"If you mean will I fuck you tomorrow, no," he said.

She slapped him.

"That didn't hurt," he said.

She went to do it harder but he caught her arm first and twisted it, stopping when she winced. He'd forgotten how fragile she felt; her bones were like reeds under his fingers. He let her go. Her husband was enough of a brute.

"Leave me," she said.

Jaime thought about saying he was sorry, but he wasn't.

He went to the doors.

She was watching him, vexation and confusion on her features.

He gave her a tiny shrug as if to communicate there was no explanation, at least not right now, and left.

On his way to his own chambers he found himself wondering what Brienne was doing. Resting, if she had any sense, but more than likely she was sitting sword-straight outside the door of Sansa Stark's quarters, staring down anyone hapless enough to come near.

The thought of the two of them attempting a journey nearly the entire length of Westeros with only Brienne's blind optimism to keep them going made him irritated. He told himself it didn't matter any more, he'd done his part, she was free to fulfill her vows and return the girl and then go back to Tarth or further roam the country or whatever it was she wanted to do. He didn't care. And if they were overtaken along the way and captured and summarily raped or held for ransom or both, that should be nothing at all to him.

A hundred curses upon blindly optimistic, stubborn, homely women with perfect blue eyes.

Jaime was still frowning over it when he entered his rooms.

* * *

Sansa Stark was already well asleep, her bright hair coming out of its braid and spilling over of her cloak, by the time Brienne got their supper prepared. On their third night from King's Landing she'd finally decided they were far enough from the road to risk a fire. As yet Sansa had taken little in the way of sustenance and Brienne had caught a rabbit earlier that afternoon on one of their rests, hoping to encourage the girl to eat something that might put color back in her skin. If she couldn't do anything about her charge's emotional state, at least she could try to nourish the physical. Now the rabbit was roasting nicely, but the girl was not likely to stir again before tomorrow.

Brienne ate her own portion. Being still so close to the city made her feel relatively ill-at-ease. She would be happier when they were farther north.

A branch cracked nearby, so obviously loudly that she thought it must be a clumsy animal. Still, she grabbed her sword, leveling it in the direction of the trees, holding her other hand to block the firelight so she could see better.

"I didn't want you to run me through." His familiar voice came from out of the darkness.

A jolt of confusion made her arm unsteady for a moment, but she held her guard until she could see him approaching unaccompanied. "Ser Jaime. What are you doing here?"

"I smelled dinner." With an innocent swagger he came into the circle of light thrown by the fire. "Are you going to share?"

"I suppose so." Brienne stood, awkwardly, for a space before moving back to the fire. Jaime settled down, carelessly graceful, into her spot, which she'd chosen especially since it was flat and free of rocks.

Watching him with cautious suspicion, she freed the rabbit carcass from the makeshift spit, separated Sansa's portion and brought the rest to him. While he ate, she was busy trying to think how to rephrase the inquiry so he wouldn't answer sarcastically or not answer at all. At last she decided to be straightforward. "Please tell me why you came."

Jaime ate around a bone and tossed it into the fire. "I thought you might need me."

"_Need_ you?"

"Want me."

She felt her face heat in a way that had nothing to do with her proximity to the flames. "I am sorry if it causes disappointment, but I neither need you nor want you."

"Very well," he said. "I'll go. Thanks for the food." He rose so abruptly she was startled. All that she had meant was for him not to be under the illusion that she was unable to carry on alone; the statement hadn't been meant as a rejection of him personally though he seemed to have taken it that way. Trust men to be so sensitive.

"Wait." Brienne stood up too.

He was already halfway back to the trees. When he turned his expression clearly read he thought she owed him an apology. Perhaps she did, when for whatever reason, after just finishing a long journey, he'd ridden three more days to find them.

She chewed nervously on the inside of her cheek. She wasn't going to _beg_. "I did not mean it like that. I don't have the way with words you do. I meant that I didn't wish you to take undue trouble over us."

"Trouble," he scoffed. "All I know, wench, is that I couldn't sleep for thinking of the trouble you were likely getting into. But if you're so opposed to my presence—"

"I...I'm not opposed."

Tentatively she gestured towards the fire, hoping the motion communicated just the right amount of welcome.

After a few heartbeats' worth of time he returned. She expected the silence to be uncomfortable after that, but it wasn't. There was a familiar spirit restored to the air; the firelight seemed warmer, the forest sounds more tranquil. Silly, perhaps, for his presence alone to induce such perceptions, but she could not deny that it did.

* * *

"The girl looks like a ghost," Jaime commented as they sat by the fire the following night.

Brienne threw him a critical glance. "She has been through a great deal recently."

"How would you know what she's been through?"

"I can see it in her eyes. Can't you?"

He shrugged. "She doesn't much look at me. I don't even think she remembers who I am."

"The outrage," Brienne said dryly. "Not to recognize the mighty Jaime Lannister."

Jaime elevated a shoulder. "I don't actually care if she does or not. In fact I sometimes think I could grow to like not being recognized."

"For a day or two perhaps," Brienne said. "But then your natural narcissism would assert itself again and you'd be offended."

"Maybe you're right," he said, agreeably.

"Regardless," she said, "you leave Sansa Stark to me. She is in a fragile state of mind and you are far too inclined to play games with people."

"I get bored easily," he said.

"I know that. If you must play with someone, play with me." She said it with dignity even though she was fairly sure he was going to laugh.

He frowned, however. "You're not much fun to play with since you stopped being serious every moment of the day."

"Do you prefer me to be serious?" she said, gravely.

"I prefer you to be yourself, lovely Brienne. Tall, dry, honest Brienne."

She wasn't sure what kind of comment that was. Typical Jaime. She decided to ignore it.

"Let's have a bet," he said.

"Are you bored already? This is only the second night you have been with us. I told you I do not like to make bets."

"Because you're afraid to lose."

"No," she said, sighing at the speed at which he made assumptions, "because—"

"Hm?"

"I am attempting to collect my thoughts, if I may be allowed a moment to do so."

"If you need time to think about it," Jaime said, "you're probably not sure yourself."

"What I was going to say is that I do not like to take chances. I prefer certainties."

"But there are no certainties in life."

"There are constancies."

"Here we go. Truth and honor, honor and truth. Am I right?"

"You always scoff," she said, "but I have seen both those qualities in you, though you cloak them so very well most of the time that they are almost impossible for anyone to discover."

Jaime threw a twig onto the fire, temporarily out of a smart answer, it seemed. Then he said, "I haven't yet truly shocked you."

"I don't believe that you _could_ do anything to shock me."

"I am quite confident I could."

"Please do not try."

"You're boring me."

"Go to sleep then."

"Remember," he said, changing course again, "when you told me you would rather die any number of nasty deaths than get to know me?"

"I meant it at the time. Now, I would rather die any number of nasty deaths than continue this conversation," she sighed.

"Good night, Brienne." There was a smile in his voice as he settled on the ground.

"Good night, Jaime."

"Wake me when it's my turn."

"I will," she said.


End file.
